The Memory Book
by The Spinning World
Summary: If everything except music and him were taken away from you, what would you do? Think real, think dark. Modern Leroux.
1. Truncated Beginnings

**Hello, everyone. This is just a short note before you read the story, so you know what to expect. This is a modern day story, written from Christine's point of view – literally. This is Christine's diary. It will be random, with random offshoots springing out of nowhere. She will be frequently diverted by thoughts towards other places, not quite relevant to what's happening. In short, this will be exactly like any diary anyone writes. **

**I was inspired by the story _Her Twisted Providence_ by Maat (read it! 'Good' is not a good enough word to describe it) to write this. There seem to be few stories written _for_ Christine, and not for Erik and that was one of them. I hope to make this similar in its direction. I can't and won't promise any romance here. The main focus will be the interaction of the two main characters. These two will drive the story, not a pre-ordained plot. Don't fear, though! The ending will not be unhappy, since I don't particularly care for writing tearjerkers. **

**And now, please give a round of applause to my wonderful beta, gravity01, who has been helping me not to get too side-tracked in later chapters, which I tend to do far too often. Now, on to the story. Please read it, and hopefully, you will enjoy it. Thank you! :)**

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**1. Truncated Beginnings  
**

I brought this upon myself. I know it. How can I ignore it when it stares me in the face every single moment that stretches on endlessly in this place? This is entirely my fault. He forbids me to think like that. I don't know how he knows what I think. _I_ certainly never told him. When I first came—no, when he first _brought_ me here, I used to wonder how he knew the thoughts that danced around in my mind. I have long since ceased to question this.

Can you see it? How it all leads back to me? It's so clear in my mind when I look back on all that has happened. If I had not been so eager to show off my so-called talent back when I was still outside, he would never have noticed me. If I had ignored the music that he played to me at night, he would have been discouraged and let me be. And perhaps, if I had fought just a bit harder when he sent those men for me, I might have had a life right now.

All that remains in my life is music and him, both of whom I have learned to detest.

That's my only secret; it's the one thing he will never learn about me. I know that he does not think it possible. He thinks that since music is my only connection to my parents, to my childhood, I treasure it above all. But I don't. If it weren't for music, he would never have found me, and I would still be living a normal life out there in the world, finding simple joys in simple things. I hate him for this. He took everything away from me. Everything.

I know now that the only release for me is death. It sounds morbid and you might call me cowardly, but no other escape has ever worked. I tried it–it wouldn't take a genius to know what I'm talking about–a long time ago; I was too much of a coward. I don't think he knows about that, although he certainly does suspect it. One day, perhaps, I will find the strength to go through with it. Perhaps not. I don't know. I don't think I'll ever be able to do it. It comes down to that inherent horror I have of taking any life, whether it is mine or someone else's. It's not … right.

I do know that I should be disturbed by my lack of emotions. It's hard to explain what it's like, but I'll try. It's somewhat like when you're out in the snow for too long, your fingers get blue and frozen, but you can't feel anything whatsoever because all your nerves have been numbed. I feel things on the outside, but on the inside, where it counts, it's all empty. I feel nothing. Just … disconnected from everything, if that makes sense.

I … I don't even know why I'm recording my thoughts here. I mean, I've written so much since—well, since _then_, but I've never once contemplated writing what I felt. It's always been doodles, or silly poetry, or frivolous stories where bad things happen to masked men, or whatever. I've never wanted to write anything personal because I'm paranoid that he will read it. I don't want to give him more of an insight into me than necessary.

(This reminds me. I'd better find a good hiding place for this. Unfortunately, there doesn't seem to be any convenient floorboard to lift up and stash this under. Most heroes who have to hide something in rooms like this have it lucky. Why not me...? Perhaps I'm not enough of a hero. Ergh.)

Something happened yesterday, though, that disturbed me as nothing else could have. I can't remember them anymore. I tried remembering her face yesterday, but all I could get in my mind were flashes of blurred images that slipped out of my grasp and disintegrated the moment I tried to look closer.

Oh dear God! What is happening to me? I can't even remember my own mother's face! Ma! I miss you so much! I'm so sorry for everything….

When I didn't remember, I wanted to cry, but the tears got stuck in my throat. He noticed, like he always does, and tried to put his arm around me. I pushed him away and he got angry and locked me in here. The tears finally fell for a while, but then I couldn't cry anymore. I locked up my feelings inside. Don't judge me, notebook. What else can you expect me to do? It's easier not to feel, not to care.

But I'm scared now. What if I forget everything? What if one day, I no longer remember what it was like to be outside, to be with people, to be … free? If he ever lets me go, I don't think I'll be able to survive on my own. I don't want to forget. And I won't. I won't ever let him take my memories from me. He can't do that to me.

Or can he…?

Well. I won't let him.

I know what I will do. I am going to put down everything about my life–BE _and_ AE (Before and After Erik; it's a little thing I thought up a few weeks ago and it quite caught my fancy. I know, I know. Don't look at me like that. I found it as pathetic as you do when I came up with it. You try being locked up with only two insane minds for company for months on end and then judge me. But I digress) because I don't want to forget all that he has done to me either–and whenever I think my memory is getting weak, I'll come here and read it all again.

This is my last fight, Erik. And I'm going to win it. You can lock me up physically but not menta

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**Note:** The last word was intentional. I don't mean to ruin the effect, but I thought I should mention it, just in case.


	2. A Script and a Dialogue

**2. A Script and a Dialogue  
**

lly.

Sorry about that, notebook (I should get down to calling you something else. What do you think of Isabella? Or George? No, wait. Not a male. If he ever reads this, he'll probably get jealous or something. Add a crazy guy who is jealous of a notebook to the horrible mess I'm in and he won't be the only mad person in this house or mansion or whatever the hell it is. Isabella, then). I didn't have time to complete what I was going to say. Erik knocked on the door and I only had enough time to stash this under a few sketches I'd been working on earlier before he came in.

As this is merely my second entry here, I haven't mentioned this before. Let me state for posterity that I positively despise it when he uses his voice to get me to tell him things. It's a cheap and dirty tactic. Considering everything else he's done, he could at least do me the courtesy of letting me decide what to tell him myself.

You're probably wondering what I'm talking about. I'll try to record the encounter to the best of my capacity. My mind is still a bit fuzzy.

Okay.

Bad idea.

I feel awkward trying to distance myself from this and put it in a somewhat appropriate perspective. I think I'll just jump into the dialogue as if this is a script for a play. Forgive me if it's bad. It probably will be. I once tried writing a play, years earlier. It was horrible. It went something like this (with all my reactions and comments added in, of course):

_(Knock on the door; C starts nervously, then stuffs diary under pile of sketches.)_

Christine _(nervously)_: Yes?

Erik _(a bit hesitant, I think; I can't be sure)_: Christine? May I enter?

C _(checks to make sure that the diary is completely hidden, then replies)_: Okay, sure.

_(E enters, paces a bit around room, his eyes all the while examining her, gauging her mood (she supposes); C remains seated at desk, fidgets with her pen and refusing to look at him. Silence for a few moments before E finally speaks)_

E: I'm sorry I shouted at you earlier, my dear. I didn't mean to lose my temper. _(Pauses. C doesn't reply as she does not want to provoke an outburst of the aforementioned temper by a caustic remark. E foolishly ploughs on.) _I … I was just … worried about you and I didn't … no, I _don't_ want you to be unhappy and ….

_(C purses her lips as if to stop herself from saying, "I can't avoid being unhappy if I never see anyone except you and you're not much good company either, you know." E trails off, probably at the expression on her face. C still finds it annoying that he can read her moods so easily. He notices the sketches on her desk and gestures at them. Probably a desperate attempt to lift the tension. It doesn't help.)_

E: Perhaps, if you like, I can give you some lessons on how to sketch in the afternoons. Once you know how to use perspective effectively, your drawings won't be quite as flat as these.

C _(flustered, and not a little bit annoyed at this observation)_: I …. Yeah, sure. Uh, thanks. _(She will later regret her lack of intelligent replies and feel completely embarrassed about them.)_ I … uh …. Did you want anything else, Erik?

E: Yes. In fact, I did. _(Walking around to where C is seated and kneeling on the floor; she tries to turn away, but is unsuccessful)_ I wish you would be happy, my love. _(Taking her hands; she tries to suppress a shudder and pull her hands out of his, but fails, yet again. He ignores her actions. As always, his seeming obliviousness to things staring at him in the face–mask–irks her. He continues. She would like to state that his hands are huge and cold. Not the most confidence- or resistance-inspiring things)_ If only you would tell me what was bothering you this morning, I could help. Tell me, Christine ….

And that is about where my memory becomes weak. What happened was that he used his voice–the hypnotic one–and coaxed me to tell him what had so upset me earlier. I did, of course. It's a rare occasion when I don't give in to his requests when he uses that voice. I don't really remember his reaction to anything I said. Things only became clear when he stood up, wiped some tears that I don't remember falling off my cheek, and said, "Don't worry, Christine. Your Erik will take care of everything."

_Your_ Erik. Those words never fail to send a shiver down my spine and every other clichéd place in my body. It reminds me far too much of his obsession, as if being here wasn't proof enough of that. I wonder what he meant by what he said. I hope to God that he doesn't make me forget somehow.

Speaking of which, I'd planned to write down all my memories here because of what happened this morning, so I guess I should start. I have a few hours before dinner, and I think he thinks he's assuaged his conscience enough for the day. Hopefully, there won't be more interruptions.

On to my life, then.

My name, as evidenced from above, is Christine. Christine Forster, to be precise (to borrow from the Thompson twins from _Tintin._ I loved that series). I was born some twenty odd years ago in a big city, where I stayed for the most part of my life. I might be twenty-one now, but I'm not too sure. My birthday was approaching around the time he brought me here, and I think it's been over half a year (half!) since then. Not knowing … it … doesn't bother me as much as it would have this time last year. I guess I've learnt to value different things now.

About my life…. Music has always been an important part of my life. My first memory is of my father playing the violin, with my mother crooning softly over me. According to all accounts (which I don't believe), I started singing before I could talk. Of course when I questioned the physical possibility of that, all I received in reply were indulgent smiles and knowing smirks. Typical of my family, really.

Ah. My family. There were four of us in all: my mum, my dad, my mum's mum and me. The best years of my life were the ones spent with them. We all loved each other and it was hard not to feel safe and warm in each other's company. (I think I grew up to be quite a brat with all of them indulging me whenever I demanded anything.) I wish more than anything that it could have lasted. It didn't, though. When I was eleven, Papa died. I don't want to go into those details. It still hurts.

It devastated all of us, especially Mama. She really loved him. With Papa gone, she just … faded, I guess you could call it. Nana took on the role of bringing me up after that. I love her more than anything for that. It took years for Mama to recover. By the time she did, though, the damage had already been done. With all my teenage angst and moods, I was not mature enough to realize I should have treasured each moment with her. I'd moved on with my life and couldn't understand why she was still stuck where she was. We still loved music, the two of us, but I craved the night music, not the light one she held in her heart.

Night music, you ask? I know now that was all Erik. But I don't want to talk about him yet. I want to remember little details of my old life.

I fell in love with classical music when I was around seven. Papa and I had gone on one of our 'bonding trips', as Mama called them, to this music function. It was just a string quartet: two violins, a viola, and a cello, but they introduced me to the world of Debussy, Haydn, Mozart, and Mendelssohn (the program is still preserved in a box back home). With that, I was hooked. My Sunday newspaper had a supplement called Musically Inclined that had a program guide for all musical events in the city for the upcoming week. The four of us would scour it for musical events regularly, and then try to clear our schedules so that we could all go together.

By the time I was eleven, we had collected a grand total of ninety-seven programs. We had even planned to fly to another city where a famous symphony orchestra was playing so that the hundredth one would be the best yet. That never happened. Papa …. Six weeks before that concert, we had to cancel our plans because Papa ….

I can't say it, or write it again.

After that happened, it hurt Mama too much to listen to music, so we stopped going to concerts. I didn't want to stop, though, because I was scared I'd forget Papa. I signed up for a singing class in school a few months later instead and discovered the world of librettos and vocal scores and sheet music and all the accompanying hoopla. Singing helped me move on and cope with a world that had seemed to collapse around me.

But I don't want to dwell on the bad moments. I know that will give you a very rosy picture of my not-so-rosy childhood, Isabella (I think it's a positive sign of madness that I've named a notebook. Excellent. The sooner I lose my sanity, the better. That might help me to cope better here.), but I've spent far too much time hiding those memories to bring them all up again.

There is one bad thing I remember clearly, though …. I wouldn't mention it if it weren't important to the development of this … narrative, I guess you could call it. It's not one of the things I want to forget.

I think I was thirteen or fourteen. I can't be sure anymore. There was a special course on advanced singing that I had signed up for through my singing class. It wasn't exactly going to teach us how to sing operas, but it planned to "broaden the young student's horizons by exposing them to new material and to yada, yada, yada." The usual stuff.

The classes were largely boring, and after all these months under _his_ tutelage, I've come to realize that they were little more than fiascos. However, at the end of one of the classes, something good happened.

The professor, a certain Ms. Violet, asked me and a boy named Gary Something (I've forgotten his last name now) to stay back after class. There was going to be a Christmas Gala organized by a large music company and they wanted to showcase talent from local schools during the event.

I still remember her exact words: "Christine, Gary, I want you to sing a duet there. If you want to do it, get me parental permission by the end of the week and we'll begin practices." Both of us were thrilled and promised to get the required assent as soon as we could.

Everything seemed to move in a blur after that. I came home in a dazed sort of excitement. It hadn't really sunk in yet, and my senses seemed more alert than normal. I still associate the sight and smell of roasted jacket potatoes, with just a hint of butter-and-spices to flavor it, with the memories that day brings back. Mama was wearing a blue dress (her favorite) and seemed to have borrowed my body spray because I could smell it on her as I came in. She was watching TV. Nana had gone out to do some shopping, but she had left her bundle of knitting on the couch.

I moved cautiously. Mama tended to have 'moods', where she'd fluctuate between happiness and anger without warning.

"Ma?" I called softly.

She inclined her head in my direction and replied somewhat vacantly, "Yes, dear. What is it?"

"I have good news!"

Turning off the TV, she turned to face me fully. "You do? Come, sit here and tell me all about it." She plumped up the cushions and scooted over on the couch for me. "What is it about? Did you get your report card today?"

"Reports aren't due until Jan, Ma." She never managed to remember school dates.

"Then what is it?"

"Well, actually…," I began nervously. Mama was still unpredictable when it came to the subject of music. "… You know I have this music class, right?"

She nodded.

I was desperate to get her permission and the words just tumbled out of my mouth, one after the other, without a single pause. "There's going to be this Christmas Gala and it's organized by this huge music company and Ms. Violet–the professor, that is–well, she wants us–me and Gary–to sing there and it's a really big chance for me and I need your permission before I can go for it so will you sign the letter?"

I was so caught up in trying to say it with the right amount of restraint that I didn't catch the hints I should have seen from the beginning. At any rate, my hopes were crushed almost immediately with her reply.

"No."

"What? Why?" I almost yelled.

"I don't have to explain my reasons to you, young lady. Now go up to your room and finish your homework."

With that, she turned back to the TV and completely ignored all my rants about the unfairness and arbitrariness of it all. In the end, when I'd exhausted myself shouting at her, I stomped up to my room in a sullen fit and refused to emerge until much past my bedtime, when I sneaked down to eat some leftovers.

I don't remember what exactly I did or thought up there in my room, but I do know that I decided to do whatever I had to so that I could sing at that function.

It's odd, you know. I was able to write about Ma far easier than I was able to about him. I mean, I didn't have to resort to a silly discourse to show you what happened. That's an interesting thought to ponder on ….

And on that note, Isabella, I must leave you. It's nearing dinnertime now and I must find a good place to hide you so that he won't ever know you exist. I'll continue with the rest of this episode later. The important bit hasn't come yet.

Adios!


	3. A Dinner, a Gala, and a Note

**A Dinner, A Gala, and A Note  
**

I found the perfect place to hide this! The drawer in my closet has a little protrusion at the back that creates a niche between it and the cupboard wall. It's just wide enough to fit in a notebook half your size, Isabella. I hope you understand now why I tore you in half along the spine before I left for dinner two hours ago. I'd apologize, but this was necessary. I can only hope you forgive me.

Oh. No. I can't believe I just said that. I _am_ going mad. I just used his line! Every time I bring up almost anything with him, he always says this. Verbatim. Or almost verbatim when he's feeling particularly verbose. Which is almost all the time, come to think of it, but that isn't the point. Ugh ugh ugh. I _hate_ that line.

Please, please forget that, Isabella. I'm really sorry for saying that. I did not want to imply anything like that and I will never do it again. At least I hope I won't.

Oh no! What if I'm becoming like him? I guess it's possible, considering I don't interact with anyone except him, but I don't want to be like him!

You might have deduced that I have a very low opinion of the man called Erik. I can assure you that all your deductions are wrong. 'Low' does not even _begin_ to describe what I think of him.

… But sometimes (and this is for your ears–pages, I suppose–only, so don't tell anyone), I wonder if I can hate him forever. No, not hate. That's such a … powerful word. Earlier, I think I did hate him, but I've been finding it harder lately. I suppose it's a resentment of a kind now, mingled with, I don't know what—pity? Sometimes, I don't think I'm strong enough. I was so full of bravado this afternoon, but now…. How do I fight him? Can I?

I wish I knew what made sense, Isabella. I don't know what does. Heck! I've named a notebook! What sense could you possibly expect from me? I … I'm sometimes afraid that I'll be so consumed by my bitterness that I will never be able to be happy again. I remember reading somewhere, long ago, about a woman who couldn't let herself be happy and … and, well, I don't want to be her. But I don't think I'll ever be what I was. And yet I cannot bring myself to … like him? love him…? No, that's too strong again…. I can't bring myself to … accept him. Yes, that's the word. Speaking of which, I should remember to tell you about dinner today. I'll do that in a bit.

So here I am, caught in this horrible cycle that doesn't seem to ever end. I wish … I wish I could speak to Nana again. Or Mama. Or Kate (my best friend). Or anyone other than him, for that matter. I need some perspective on this.

But I can't, so I named you and am talking to you instead. Too bad you can't be like that notebook in Harry Potter (which book was it in again?) that talks back.

On tonight's dinner: meals are always an awkward affair for me, at least. I get the impression he likes watching me eat and that makes me uncomfortable. It was a bit more awkward tonight.

First off, there was still some tension left over from this morning's argument. He didn't quite meet my eye for the most part. That might have been because I was still angry about his dirty trick where he made me tell him what I was thinking, though. Perhaps I misjudged him then. Oh, well. I ate alone–he never eats with me–with only a few words here and there. That led to the second reason for my discomfiture.

He broke the silence with a question. I was dabbing my mouth with the napkin when he asked it.

"Do you think you will ever be able to talk to me?" His voice was low, the question, hurried, forced.

It was an odd query and I didn't immediately understand where he was leading. Cocking my head to one side, I replied, "What? I talk to you every day, don't I?"

He shook his head slightly. "No, not that. Will you … will you ever be able to confide in me?"

I set my napkin down slowly, considering, actually considering the answer. I could feel his eyes on me. "I don't know …," I started slowly, trying to choose my words carefully. "I…." I met his gaze for a moment, and then hastily stared back at my napkin. "…I don't think so."

It's the truth, as white as it can get. I can't apologize for that. I expected him to shout, as he normally does, but he just sighed. "And acceptance, Christine? Will you ever be able to accept me?"

That question was the worse of the two, in my opinion. I did not look up as I mumbled an "I don't know", so I don't know how he reacted but it's been nagging at my brain ever since. I don't know if I can, you know. I'll just stew over it for a few more days–or weeks–and come to a conclusion, I suppose.

I continued eating in a silence that seemed louder than normal until I finished. As I stood up to go to my room, Erik stopped me.

"I only wish your happiness, Christine. No more…." He paused, as if struggling with himself. Then, much softer, so I'm not even sure he said it, "and no less, either." He continued in a louder voice, saying, "You can trust me, even though you don't wish to. I only…." And he trailed off.

There was a tense moment, but it passed. Without waiting for a reply (which I didn't have), he escorted me here and bid me goodnight.

I don't know what to make of him sometimes. I really don't.

Maybe I can convince myself better that I can fight him if I continue with what I'd started earlier.

Now I think I've forgotten where I've stopped. Hold on a moment while I check that.

I'm back. And I keep forgetting that time is irrelevant to you. Sorry for mentioning that.

Anyway. I'd stopped with my mum doing the psycho act on me. I was thinking about that during dinner, by the way. I don't really blame her anymore, you know…. This had happened back when she was still recovering from everything. She did things she would normally never have done. She did get better over the years, until…. No, forget that.

Back to the Gala, then. When I finally emerged from my room, Nana was waiting for me in the kitchen (oh! how I miss her!). Mama was nowhere to be seen. Mama must have told her all about it. After all the usual greetings, she sat down at the table by me and said, "Don't be angry with your mother, dear. She isn't herself these days. Now do you have any ideas about how you'll go for the Gala, or should I tell you mine?"

My mouth dropped open as I stared at her.

"Come, now." She smiled. "Don't be so shocked. If I know you at all, you were up there scheming all night."

I hope you didn't expect a more dignified reaction than me squealing and hugging her and thanking her a million times. You must remember that I was quite young at the time.

Once I'd gotten over my excitement and Nana had shushed me in case Ma heard, I asked her the only question that seemed important at the time. "Why?"

"Why? Because I'm happy when you are, sweetheart. You deserve to be happy."

That's Important Memory One. I can't say how much that touched me. It gives me a lump in my throat every time I think of it. I don't quite know how to describe how happy I felt at that moment. After Papa died, we all withdrew into our own little worlds and I guess we stopped communicating. Nana saying that, it just…. I don't know how to say it, as I seem to persist on repeating. I'll try again.

It had been so long since anyone had said anything like that that it touched—I don't know how to put it in words. Well, it just made me feel … _loved_. And not the obsessive, possessive kind of love that Erik embodies. It was more real, more … sublime, if that makes sense. I think that was the first time I felt my heart swell.

I know, I know. It's silly to be so moved by a few words, but consider how emotionally starved I was at the time. And I don't know why I keep justifying myself. I'm silly. And there I go justifying myself again. Kindly ignore that.

I think I'll skim over what happened until the main bit. I don't remember every single word of it, anyway. Just snippets of conversations, and images.

At the end of it all, we decided we'd wait for a few days, to see if we could convince Ma to give her permission. If she didn't, Nana said she'd write me the letter.

I put off Ms. Violet's questions with ambiguous replies for the next four or five days. Every day, I'd come home and ask Nana urgently if she had managed to convince Mama.

Ma didn't agree so Nana had to sign the form in the end (why do I feel like crying when I think about that? I don't know). We started practice in school and were two weeks into rehearsals when everything came crashing down. I was sick one day and didn't go to school. Ms. Violet called at home to find out why I hadn't come for practice. One thing led to another and everything came crashing down with a resoundingly loud bang (literally; Ma dropped the brass curio she was holding when she heard the truth).

Mama was furious beyond belief, and refused to let me have anything to do with it. For three agonizing days, I went around moping and convinced that the world was out to get me (it seems so insignificant when I think of it in perspective now….).

It was all rather anticlimactic in the end, considering that the situation had built up quite enough drama for a movie. Nana spent two hours shut up in a room with her, saying God-(and Mama and Nana)-alone-knows-what and somehow managed to convince her to give me her permission. Ma categorically refused to attend the event, but it didn't bother me too much. I was far too happy to care. But I do now. So much! I miss you, Ma, Nan….

I threw myself into rehearsals without much further thought. By the time the Gala finally came around, Gary and I had practiced the song so much, we could probably have sung it in the middle of a crowded street with traffic whizzing around us without a single mistake (I can't stand the song anymore, by the way; it took me _weeks_ to get it out of my head).

Only Nana came for it. Mama stayed at home and watched TV, if I remember right. I won't go over the details of the performance. Let it be known that I suffered from all the regular symptoms: panic attacks, stage fright, mucking-up-the-song-in-the-beginning-and-then-working-it-out-later, the works. By the end of it, I was a phenomenally exhilarated nervous wreck.

Did you think the Gala was the most important part of the story? I made it sound like that until I actually came to it, didn't I? Well, it wasn't.

Looking back on it all now, I'm fairly certain that he first heard me at that Gala. Because around a month later (January 25th – I remember the date), he sent me the first of many notes. I suppose you could call that Important Event Two. Or Three, if you count the Gala as Two. It doesn't signify either way.

I think I was fifteen. Not thirteen or fourteen as I remember saying earlier. Everything is so hazy now when I try to remember. I certainly don't remember being so young when the first note came. Does it matter much? I could recall it if I tried.

I remember it being a normal day. It was a Thursday, school was just ending, and we'd had an awful Geography class with a teacher who wasn't that nice (understatement of the century; she was a crazy old bat). Kate was with me. Yes, I remember that I walked to my locker with Kate. We weren't that close back then. We only knew each other by virtue of being neighbors and used to walk home together. Now, of course, we wouldn't ever dream of doing anything without telling each other. At least until Erik happened to my life, that is. But. Not the point.

We reached our respective lockers and opened them, etc. You know the drill. Something was different this time, though. On top of the large stack of books that continually threatened to fall over in an avalanche was a rolled up sheaf of papers, tied with red twine. A note was attached to it. I remember thinking that someone had pulled a prank on me.

I unfolded the note and read the typed letters, not bothering to fight back my mounting skepticism. It said:

_Ms. Forster,_

_Having heard you sing, I have come to the conclusion that you could excel under the guidance of a competent tutor. Kindly learn the attached song by the auditions next Friday. You will sing it at the beginning of that travesty of a drama that your school is putting up next month. If I believe you deserve further instruction, you will be contacted._

_Yours,_

_E._

Or it was something to that effect. All I am certain of is that he was as arrogant as he ever was or will be.

I stuffed the papers into my bag as Kate walked over to me. I don't know why, but I didn't want anyone to know about it. We walked home together. She, vociferously ranting about the Geography teacher, me, half-heartedly agreeing. The note weighed on my mind, but I didn't say anything of it. I wasn't close enough to her. I don't know why I didn't tell anyone then. I mean, how stupid can you get? Not as bad as me, definitely. I didn't, and that had a whole load of consequences. Anyway, when I came home, I looked over the music.

It was beautiful.

He told me a few weeks ago that that piece was one of a series which he had particularly detested and that he had thrown them away years ago. Back then, I knew no better than to be awed by it. I was all the more disturbed, though, because none of the suspected pranksters would know enough to find such music. Perhaps I did know better back then. I wasn't blinded by this damned music.

I'm sorry for crying, but I want to love music again. I can't, I just can't.

I'm sorry. I can't write more now. I'll just go to sleep.


	4. Rudeness Prevails

**Rudeness Prevails  
**

Had my first drawing lesson today, and once again, my abundance of gratitude to Erik for such favors can only be ceaseless. Yes, thank you, Erik. Really.

To do him justice, he does teach well, but he is so damn patronizing about it. It's like the music lessons. He knows everything about everything and expects me to know the same, or at least know enough to keep pace with him. Ha! As if I could ever manage that.

You know what I hate about it? He condescends. I can just imagine him looking down on me with an expression of disdain behind his mask every time I reveal that I don't know something. He's always impatient, and it doesn't help that I don't require much provocation to lose my temper either. And then, I never know what to expect. If I could storm off, I would, but the one time I tried it, I regretted it sorely. If I could shout, I would, but shouting only succeeds in him getting angrier. So, I sit there and bottle my anger, and endeavor to smoothen things out. It doesn't help his cause at all, you know.

And then there are the times when he is almost … awkwardly … gentle and when I listen to his voice–so calm and beautiful–it seems so easy to forget everything else and give in to him and those are the times I most fear losing my mind.

I've been having mood swings ever since I came here. Smiling one moment, crying the next. It's messing up my emotional well being or whatever that thing is called. I bet he thinks that I haven't noticed. Probably doesn't credit me with half the intelligence I do have, the infuriating man. Of course I've noticed. I've not been like this since I could blame mood swings on hormones!

Agh!

I hate that he affects me so much! I was perfectly normal today until those stupid, stupid, _stupid_ drawing lessons.

Do you want a detailed account of them, Isabella? Perhaps not, actually. I don't want to remember every excruciating detail. It isn't worth the effort. I only hope he isn't so insufferable tomorrow. Because if he is, I'm just going to tell him that I don't want to learn how to draw. I'm very happy with my own imperfect doodles, thank you very much. And let me go while you're at it.

Of course I won't put it that way. I don't like looking for trouble.

To take my mind off today's events (isn't that why I'm writing here, after all?) I'll go back to what I was talking about yesterday. And before that, I need to remember to find another place to hide you. It's a pain to have to remove the entire drawer every time I want to write, and even more so since this seems to have all the signs of becoming a habit. I can't think of any other place where I could hide this, though. Another thing to add to my To-Do List. Which is rather short, coming to think of it. What does it contain again?

- Morning: Wake up, bathe, breakfast, music lessons

- Afternoon: Lunch, stupid drawing lessons, diary

- Evening: Library session if I'm so inclined (which was most days until yesterday), walk in garden (until around two months ago; I miss the sun so much! Warmth, even. It's so cold down here. Why did he have to take even that away from me?) or diary

- Night: Dinner, diary

Yes. A day in the exciting life of Christine Forster. I suppose I could add trying not to cry at random moments, being scrutinized in the most unnerving manner at any time of the day, having to watch every word I say, being in a state of constant depression because I can't forget what it is like to be outside, and the hundred other things I do every day, but it would be rather pedantic of me to write those down. Those are givens.

Moving on. I think the last thing I wrote about was the first note he sent me. It did unnerve me for a while, but I decided to ignore it. The weekend passed uneventfully. I duly forgot about both the note and the music, and spent my time watching movies–I'm fairly certain that I saw _Casablanca_ for the first time then, actually–and roaming around the city with friends.

Monday morning, when I opened my locker, the first thing I saw was another note; this was written by hand (he has horrible handwriting, by the way; a reflection of his true nature?), in red ink. It said something to the effect of:

_Do not take me for granted, Ms. Forster. I rarely give gifts, and any refusal of them will not be taken lightly. You have frittered your weekend away on frivolous pastimes; if you are not prepared by this Friday, I will be forced to take action_.

That was it. No greeting, no signing off. Just a threat, pure and simple. Of course I didn't take it seriously. I'd already thought of what to do if I got another note. The bell rang before I could do anything, though, so I crumpled up the note and shoving it into my bag, went off to class.

I was angry, very angry when I wrote my reply. I still think my note was _much_ better than his. I remember most of it.

_Dear Mr. Note Writer,_

_Perhaps you think that putting threatening notes in people's lockers is fun. You really must have a twisted sense of humor, or perhaps you don't know what else to do with your time. That is not my problem. Don't bother me. Your attention is more than unwelcome._

_Not yours at all,_

_Christine_

_PS: As for the thing next month, maybe you should update your schedule, since you seem to have gotten your information from dubious sources. There won't be any singing before the play, and hence, no auditions. And it's not a travesty. At least see the rehearsals before you start judging._

_PPS: Here's your music. It's pretty, but you can keep it._

I think I can realistically imagine his reaction to that. If I'd been around when he read it, I'd have probably wanted to shut myself in my room and hide as soon as I could. I was such a presumptuous little twerp back then….

Anyway, I folded the letter, wrote 'To the Note Writer' in big letters on the back, tied the music sheets to it, and put them in my locker during lunch. I figured that since I didn't have any plans to learn the song, it was likely that the note writer would see them when he (I was convinced it was a 'he') next decided to chastise me.

I didn't forget the notes as easily this time. I was preoccupied all through my singing lessons that day, mucking up _my _notes, forgetting cues, that sort of thing. I was finally snapped to attention when Ms. Violet announced that there had been a staff meeting that morning and it had been decided that there would be a musical compendium before the play next month. Anyone who wanted to try out for it was to be ready for an audition on Friday.

Spooked is not sufficient enough to describe my reaction. I panicked because:

- He got into my locker (How the _hell_ did he get my locker combination, for starters?), which is scary enough, as it is, without any external help such as …

- knowing about staff decisions before they were made and …

- because it was just plain damn creepy!

I spent the rest of the class vacillating between terror and a vague sort of hope. Hope? Because I'd always wanted to be recognized for my talent and that could have been my lucky chance. Yeah, I was so full of myself back then. Now, I'd be happy to simply be with those I care for. Or free. Yes, I could settle for freedom.

Surprisingly, though, it took me longer than it should have to make the connection between the fallout of a rude note and the chances of my getting a tutor who, if he could teach as well as he could compose, would be just darn brilliant.

Yes, added to being full of myself, I was also a bit slow.

I was halfway home with Kate, when it suddenly struck me, and leaving her gaping at me as if I were mad, I ran all the way back to school. The doors had already been locked, however, and I was left staring longingly through them, and hoping madly that the note writer wouldn't see the note.

I trudged home moodily, and locked myself in my room. Again. I used to do that a lot back then. I was certain that I would never hear from the note writer again, and that I had lost my one and only chance to become famous. I honestly think that if my 14- or 15-year old self were here right now, I'd detest her. A lot. I don't think I'd be able to be in the same room as her for more than five minutes, either.

The next day, all my fears were realized. I'd say hopes now, in hindsight, but there you have it. The music sheets were back in the locker, as was another note. I don't remember that one too clearly, though. One line in particular sticks out:

_The music is a gift. Keep it. _

The rest was all about how he would henceforth remain uninvolved. Ruder, certainly–that's Erik for you–but all the same, aloof and unconcerned. There weren't any apologies either.

Panic again. I hastily dashed off another note, apologizing to him for my rudeness, but expressing my wish to be taught. I also tried to justify my reaction with something like this:

_At least tell me who you are. Did you think that I'd follow your commands without a second thought if I didn't know who you are? I don't know about you, but 'E' really doesn't convey anything to me. _

Some more groveling later, I left the letter in the locker, hoping wildly against all hopes that he would forgive me. The music, I kept. And learned. And sang in the auditions. And got through them on the strength of that song.

I had Important Events earlier. I would count this, however, as Mistake No. 1. He would have left me alone if I had not apologized, or sung the song. I am certain of it. Well, not _'certain'_ certain. Just 'a little hunch' certain. He would have lost interest in me because I had disregarded him and I wouldn't be here today.

There was never any reply to my note. Instead, about a month after I'd got through the auditions–a week after the play, I think; again, I can't be sure; time just stands still here, and I've forgotten what it feels like–I first heard the night music.

And dammit. I seem to stop at interesting bits all the time. However, you must forgive me. I don't want Erik to start wondering what I'm doing in my room in the afternoons, instead of coming to the library, as I normally do. The risk of him finding you is far worse than leaving some things for next time. By all estimates, I'll have all the time in the world to continue. Besides, I'm hungry and I want to grab something to eat from the kitchen. Au revoir, Isabella! I'll find you a better hiding place when I get back.


	5. Eine Kleine Nachtmusik

**Eine Kleine Nachtmusik**

Where did I stop last time? Oh, yes. Night music. Well, to tell you the truth, I'm getting rather sick of Erik dominating all these pages. I was supposed to write down _my_ memories too—and that includes stuff without him. Anyway, since I started it and I don't like leaving anything incomplete (I'm a bit neurotic; _why_ does he like me again?), I'll finish off with the night music bit and go back to what I really want to write here.

So. Night music. What was I doing that night…? Oh, yes. Getting ready for bed. I'd wished Nana goodnight, pointedly avoided Ma's door (she'd gotten into the habit of trying to engage me in conversation for some time; I wasn't too keen on it), and had then gone off to my room. Just after I turned off the lights, Ma knocked and entered.

Now that I think about it, I think she was trying to make up for all her brusqueness over the years. She'd been getting noticeably better and had been trying to cut down on her varying moods. At least that's what I think. I never paid much attention back then. And I still resented her Gala almost-diktat, so I wasn't particularly interested in what she had to say.

She came in, sat at the edge of my bed, and started talking. I ignored her in the beginning (remember what I said about how I don't like my 15-year old self?), but began to pay attention when she started speaking of Papa. Why? Because that was the only time her voice lost the heaviness it had acquired over the years and the softness made me nostalgic.

Memories. The memories that brings back. You won't ever know how many times I've sighed while writing this. Memories are powerful, but they also hurt so much….

She spoke about Papa a bit. About his music, and how she missed hearing his violin at night when she was alone, and did I remember how I hid his bowstring when I was six, and how the next time we went to the graveyard together we could leave a bowstring there for him, couldn't we, and did I remember those absolutely silly stories they used to tell me about angels and demons and all that, and so on and so forth.

I hugged her impulsively. Ma, you asked me to forgive you some years ago and I said I did. But I wasn't thinking straight. There was nothing to forgive. I love you so much, Ma. Nothing you could ever have done would have stopped me from feeling that way. Even when I was so stupid and immature. God, Ma. Words can't say how much I'd give (even a lifetime here with him; but that isn't possible now, is it?) to spend even one moment with you. To say goodbye, perhaps, and to ask _you_ to forgive me for being such a twerp. If only….

But, no. I'm wallowing in regrets. Next step is self-pity and I'm _not_ going to go that way while I can help it.

Cold. Clinical. That's what I have to be. Cold. Clinical. Cold. Clinical. Detach yourself, Christine. Forget that you know these people. Put the memory on paper and then start feeling again. Don't waste time writing what you feel. There is ample amount of time for you to feel without paper. And stop talking to yourself, too. That's just stupid.

After that impulsive display of affection, we warmed up to each other a bit and sat talking to each other for quite a while, until she realized it was past midnight. We both went to bed. I went to sleep immediately. Somewhere in the middle of my dreams, I heard a violin play. I woke up. Looked around. Nobody was there. Went back to sleep. Heard it again. Got really annoyed. Thought that some crazy fool was playing music in the middle of the night. Was about to go to my window and shout out to whoever was playing the music when it started again. And it captivated me. I couldn't move. I just sat up in my bed and listened to it and listened to it and listened to it until it slowly coaxed me back to sleep.

I didn't mention it to anyone when I woke up. Thought it was a dream. The next night, there was the same thing. And the next night. And the next night. The fourth–or fifth?–night, though, there was nothing, and I couldn't sleep at all. I didn't know it then but–and this is a _very_ crude way of putting it–I was under his spell already.

It became a drug for me after that. The nights he played to me were the nights I slept peacefully. The nights he didn't play were normally followed by days where I'd be bleary-eyed and cranky. Damn you, Erik. What the hell were you thinking? I was only fifteen! A kid, for God's sake! Didn't you feel the slightest bit of remorse for messing around with my brain like that? _Can_ you feel that sort of thing, anyway?

Oh, right. I'm not supposed to feel on paper. Sorry. I'll go back to recounting.

The music went on for years. It only stopped for a really long time around a year– year and a half?–ago and I finally managed to force myself to sleep without the music. Now…. Now, I can still sleep without it, but maybe that's because I hear so much of it during the days….

Ponder later.

I don't know what he did to me in the nights. No, no. Not physically, of course. He'd never stoop to that level. I think I know that much about him. Mentally, I mean. I'd wake up in the mornings with ideas on how to improve my singing, or with new songs in my head, or just with a sense of calm and peace, and my days would be made so much more meaningful with the music. Not once did I question where the music came from. Not once did I think hard enough to make a connection between notes and music. I, brat that I was, thought that everything came from my own latent genius. Or at least I did for around a year or so.

After this first year, his influence grew on me. How? One night, in a 'dream' (I use the quotation marks because I can no longer distinguish between dreams and reality), he spoke to me. Said some rubbish about being sent by my father. Silly man didn't realize that that was the one thing that could make me shake off my trance. I'm far too cynical to accept anything like that at face value. I don't believe in angels. Not now, not ever.

Like a (wo)man drowning in this intense ocean of music that captured her soul, I clutched at that statement as my only lifeline and refused to let go. But the rope turned out to be merely a flimsy string. He realized his mistake almost immediately and backtracked. The music began again and, for the moment, I was beguiled again and lost myself in it. One problem, however: I still remembered what he said about Papa sending him when I woke up (how could you _dare_ to use him to further your sick cause, you horribly horrible man?) and that planted enough of a doubt in my mind to make me aware that something was wrong.

However, _still_ being phenomenally stupid, I _still _did not tell anyone about the music. I think I was subconsciously afraid of losing the music. Perhaps he had something to do with that belief. I wouldn't be surprised.

A month or so after his failed attempt, he tried talking again. This time, I heard him in a daze. Fear mingled with awe and wonder. His voice was, and is, beautiful. He spoke about life and death and how he could give me all that I desired in the world—yeah, right!—if I just let him guide me. In my drugged (and I use the word intentionally) state, I willingly acquiesced to all his demands. When I woke up the next morning, I knew that I would stick to what I had promised. The fear of losing him was far too much for me to bear. And—and don't tell anyone this—I had this little hope—which I hardly dared think of—that somehow, by some miracle, the night music would let me see my father again.

Didn't happen, of course (how could it?).

And that is how Erik came into my life.

And now, enough of him. I will not mention anything even remotely related—no, scratch that—anything directly related to him for at least one week. Deal? Excellent.

So. What do I talk about?

Memories, of course. Which ones?

Ah, yes. I know. The ones where I was happiest. Let's see where to begin. Obviously before Papa died. Hm….

Ah. I know.

When I was six or seven, we all went to the seaside for a summer. It was a lot of fun. I don't remember much of it, actually. Just that Papa amused himself by playing a violin at this local fair and Mama was most mortified at first. I remember that after she berated him for a while, he went and hugged her and they kissed (which I found rather disturbing, as a young child, mind you) and then she let him go. We all went together to see him play and in the middle of one of his songs, he laid down the violin, scooped me up in his arms and started waltzing with me. We must have been a sight, with me in the air and giggling madly, and him moving me up and down without a care for the crowd.

Yes, I was certainly happy then.

It's odd. I don't need anything but the slightest words for some memories to spring up in my mind in full detail, complete with sight, smell, and sound. For others, though, I have to rack every corner of my brain for any little tidbit that can help me piece up a memory out of nothing. Like this, for example. I only needed that short little paragraph for my brain to latch on to it.

What else? What else?

Oh, I just remembered! If I'm not mistaken (and I'm fairly certain I'm not), I first met Raoul there.

Who is Raoul, you ask? The only friend who actually bothered to stay in touch with me (and vice versa) over all these years after everything that has happened. He's not my closest friend, but I can definitely count him amongst the ones I can rely on.

Wait a moment. Kate is the only other person on that list. Well.

That says a lot about how much I trust people, doesn't it?

So. I met him there. He was (and always will be) a brat. No, not seriously. We just love ribbing each other and that tends to lead off into insults quite frequently. To tell you the truth, he's the sweetest guy that ever lived.

Oh, damn. I wasn't supposed to say that here. If Erik ever reads this, I don't want Raoul to be in danger.

Ah, well. This gets the 'cancel' treatment then. All these lines are going to be cancelled so thoroughly, nobody will ever be able to read them.

Let me continue with him for a while and then I'll cancel this out. As I said, he is probably one of the sweetest guys ever. He's also had a crush on me (he doesn't know I know, poor thing) for the last year, or so. Wait, more. I forgot to include the time I was here. Anyway, it's really cute, but it can't ever happen because after Erik, the last thing I want to do is be with any member of the male species. And Erik would probably rip apart anyone unfortunate enough to be dated by me, anyway, so that's a moot point. No, really. And what am I doing? I said no Erik in this.

Raoul. I'm talking about him. I know he likes me because he told Kate and Kate told me. I was most flattered, but also a little weirded out. Nothing against him, of course, but I'll always think of him as the dirty little boy with scabby knees who was crying because someone stole his toy soldier (which happened the first time we met, by the way). It's a bit strange to be liked that way. And of course nothing can ever happen of it now. No going back home for me, you see.

It's time for me to 'socialize'. Excuse me while I do the needful scratching out and then head to the library. I'm reading _Great Expectations_ by Dickens again, and I like it this time, too. Ms. Havisham was the woman I'd read about who could never be happy in her life because she was so bitter, if you remember (and I'll be most surprised if you do; I only do because I was reading through what I'd written earlier before I started today). I don't want to be like her—or Estella, for that matter, though I do see some resonances between us.

I digress. This wasn't supposed to be a literary discourse. Goodbye for now!

* * *

**Note on the chapter title**: 'Eine Kleine Nachtmusik' is the name given to Mozart's Serenade No. 13 for Strings in G Major. It ought to be translated as 'A Small Serenade' in English, but I prefer the more prevalent, literal translation, 'A Little Night Music', especially as it is relevant to this chapter. Listen to it. It's a piece of Mozart heaven. In fact, it's so popular, the odds are you have already heard it somewhere or the other. Here is your chance to embed it into your memory.


	6. The Nature of Freedom

**The Nature of Freedom  
**

Where was I last time?

Oh, yes. No more Erik. Speaking of whom, might I bend that rule just a tiny bit?

Excellent. I love that you never overrule me.

I've noticed that I've been getting weaker. It's nothing tragic, but it's been happening gradually, over the months. It wasn't that bad in the beginning; it's only after he stopped taking me up to the garden that it's become noticeably worse.

Take this for example. I can't write for long without stopping and resting for a bit. My hands have taken to twitching at odd times. I try to hide it as best I can, but there are times when he sees it and then he makes me rest. I don't mind that. I feel so exhausted all the time. I've taken to napping in the evenings before dinner, too.

That's been happening for a while. Nothing new. I wouldn't have mentioned it if it hadn't been for today.

We were walking from the music hall to the dining room after a very grueling lesson when suddenly, my head began to spin and I saw black dots in front of my eyes. My knees buckled and I would have careened into the wall if Erik hadn't been right beside me. I wish he hadn't been. His hands were around my waist as they steadied me and they lingered a few moments longer than necessary.

To get them off me, I hastily backed away, all the while leaning against the wall. He didn't move. Well, he did, but it was just a fraction of a second too late for me to not notice how he was staring at me. I wavered again, and he came back to normal. Escorted me gently to the dining room, inquiring after how I felt (what do you think, Erik? You have enough of the grey stuff), whether I had slept well, hadn't I better drink some water, could he get me anything sweet, etc., etc.

I think I managed to put him off effectively–I vowed a long time back that I would never tell him more than was necessary, and since I'm not particularly dying here, and he seems adept enough at finding out things about me without any further assistance, this applies to the vow.

He sent me back in here after lunch and told me to rest as long as I wanted, and if I needed anything, I was to call out to him immediately. Good. I don't have to go to the library today. And even better: no drawing.

I'm a bit worried now, to tell you the truth. I don't think he'll ever let me go, as he'd promised so long ago. If he doesn't let me go, and I stay here forever, how long will I be able to live in this condition? My muscles are deteriorating; will my brain also follow suit? Or is there a point where my body will rebel and hold itself together to make sure I don't die?

I don't know which option appeals to me more.

The part about Erik is officially over. No more about him for another seven days (how long have been I writing in you again? Three days? Four?). I swear.

Blast. Isabella, you're going to hate me for this, but I find that I can't write anything for long that doesn't ultimately concern him. I tried, believe me! I haven't written anything for at least ten minutes because I was thinking of what to say.

No, no, no. This will not do at all. I have to get him out of my mind. Out of my mind, out of my mind, out of my mind. Ha! I just realized that that bit can be read differently. _I'm_ out of my mind, and so is he, and I need to get him out of my mind and he needs to get me out of his. I feel like laughing hysterically.

I think I am mad.

What do I talk about? There is so much to write, but I don't know where to start, what to start with, how to start. And even once I do start, how do I continue? I'm not the kind of person who has a timeline memory. I jump all over, without a thought for chronology, or making sense, or whatever. And somehow, everything leads back to him.

Fine. I have to talk about this. It's been nagging at me ever since I mentioned it.

I've mentioned a garden before, and that he has stopped taking me there. There is a reason for that. I'll have to skip over at least a few weeks of narrative that I'll cover later, during which time I was … kidnapped (makes me clench my fist every time), brought here, and suffered a great deal of mental and emotional trauma that continues to this day, if in a somewhat abated form.

Got your bearings? Know where we are? If not, just try to imagine my psyche at the time. I was terrified of him, but still had the naïve idea that he would let me go, and that I'd be free again.

When he first took me up to the garden (it's definitely up, because you have to climb two flights of stairs to reach the outhouse that opens on to it), I hadn't seen the sun, or any light other than the dim yellow ones he insists on using, for several days. Maybe weeks. I don't know.

My hands are trembling now. Can you understand my handwriting? I can't. I don't know if I'll be able to read this tomorrow. Beautiful. So beautiful. Grass and trees and wonderful flowers so sweet so fresh so _alive_ and the sun the feel of the sun on your face warm so warm and birds chirping they are actual living beings and the first I saw in so long and the

Sorry. I have to stop for a bit. My tears just smudged the last few words in the paragraph above. I can't read or write. Forgive me.

.

.

.

I'm better now. I stopped and walked around the room a bit. The tears ran their course. They always do. Funny, isn't it? I'm so well acquainted with tears that I can even predict how they'll fall.

My hand isn't shaking anymore, but it does hurt. The other one is twitching; I'll sit on it for a while.

When I first saw the garden, I wasn't able to stop crying. He sounded faintly alarmed at my tears. Can't imagine why. It seems that all I did during those first few days or weeks was cry or shout. Nothing new about it. I honestly believed that he was letting me go and that the garden was just on the way out.

He swiftly crushed that hope. He informed me that he would be leaving me up there until evening, and that he would bring me back down for dinner. And then he pointed out the walls–so high!–surrounding it and told me that escaping would not be particularly fruitful.

How true that was.

I did not try to escape that first day. No, I just walked around the garden for hours, relishing the warm sun on my face, my hands.

He took me up almost every day after that. There was one week in particular where he locked me in my room for almost the entire day. This is going to be a long narrative, so I don't think I'll be able to talk about that week now. If not now, then next time. It makes me feel cold inside.

After a few weeks in this almost … pleasant routine, I became restive. I began to believe that he would never let me go. Back then, it was only a tiny feeling, but it was enough. I still had hope, you see. It is the worst thing you can have here. The more you hope, the more it hurts when you are dashed back to earth. Or to hell, if you look at it that way.

I decided to escape.

I'd tried earlier, but he had caught me easily enough. This time, I planned it out to the last detail. I'd climb a tree (I can't believe he overlooked the trees near the wall; did he orchestrate the entire thing? I no longer know what he is capable of), jump down to the other side of the wall and run as fast as I could until I found someone, preferably a police officer, who would take me home and keep me safe.

He left me alone one afternoon, after telling me that he wouldn't return for a while and that I was not to enter the house until he came to fetch me. I'd been waiting for just such an opportunity; I did not question him.

To cut a long story short, I climbed a tree (pear, tall) and jumped over the wall, narrowly missing breaking my ankle. I won't go into the details of how many times I fell while trying to climb the tree, and how I was doubled up in pain on the other side for a really long time. None of those were in the Plan.

Once I managed to shovel the pain out of my way and into a recess of my mind where I could ignore it for a while, I began to run blindly. I didn't care where I ran, so long as it was away from that horrible, deathly house.

It was heavily wooded outside. There were slopes going up and down and roots and stones and general wildness. And there were insects. Horrible little bugs and creepy crawly things that I seemed to collect all over me whenever I tripped and fell (often). Whatever romantic ideas you might have about woods, dispel them. They're repulsive places if you're an urban dweller at heart.

I don't know how long I ran, but some time into this, I got winded and slowed to a desperate limp. I'd run for quite a while, despite the near-blinding howls of my ankle, and had compounded the sprain. I was panicking. I was terrified that I'd be lost in the woods forever, and that I'd be eaten by wild animals. In the midst of my fear, I got spooked by a noise behind me. I still think it was him.

In my haste to escape 'Erik', I tripped over a root, fell down a slope, acquiring several cuts, grazes, scratches, and sprains along the way, and finally fell flat on my front, bruised and scratched and cut and aching.

Dispel any romantic notions you might have of falling down slopes as well. It hurts. Badly. And all that about being able to pick yourself up almost immediately after such a fall? Rubbish. I couldn't move and I suppose I passed out after a while of groaning in pain. I wasn't keeping a watch on the time. All that was going through my head was that I had failed miserably and that if Erik ever found me…. I let that thought stay incomplete.

I don't know how much later it was when I woke up. The woods were dark, so I presume it was at least a few hours.

I couldn't move at first because I had an excruciating headache. When I finally managed to sit up shakily, I noticed that, among other things, my head was bandaged and there didn't seem to be any blood anywhere. The cuts on my arms and legs were also cleaned up and my ankle was bandaged. Only my torso had been left untouched.

Panic, you can presume. Who else would do such a thing?

Fuelled by my fear, I managed to stand up and stumble a few steps backwards when his dry voice floated across from somewhere. "If you are looking for the highway, you only need to limp towards your left for another ten minutes or so. Going backwards won't get you far."

I shifted, expecting to see him leering over me in the shadows. Nothing. I didn't move further.

Then, from another direction, "Aren't you going to go? I imagine you might find a few cars at this time, if you hurry."

He was toying with me. Of course he was. I didn't know what to think. I didn't know where to look, what to do. He kept assailing me with his voice; it came from all directions, even from below (at which I quickly crossed my legs in horror). I was terrified of what he would do to me; I begged him to come out from the shadows again and again and again. Seeing him would be far better than hearing his voice everywhere. It reminded me of the time I thought I was mad.

He did not emerge. I even brought myself to apologize, all the while sobbing and pleading. My unanswered supplications eventually made me believe that I was alone and delusional. Or even worse: I was dead. It's a horrible thought to have. It's how you know how much you want to live.

That thought, though, didn't last; my muscles were aching far too much for this to be true. I could not hold myself up for long. I crumpled to the ground, unable to even break my fall with my arm. None of my pleas for him to show himself had worked; this did. He was at my side before I could move.

I wanted to curl into a ball and hide, but he would have none of that. He helped me lean against a tree for support, then promptly backed away.

Pointing behind me, he said, "That's the way to the road. This is the only chance you'll get, Christine. Why don't you take it?"

I couldn't believe he was letting me go. I asked him as much, between hiccups and tears.

His eyes—fiery in the dark, now that I could see them—were unreadable as he approached me once more.

"You must try to understand what I am about to tell you, Christine. Will you?"

A pause, in which I gasped and tried to look away from his eyes, unsuccessfully. He curled his long, bony fingers around my shoulders, and clasping them painfully, he continued, "Until I release you, you may leave whenever you want, but I will always find you."

He did not raise his voice a single decibel. It merely grew colder and harder. And his eyes. Something beyond feeling. Apathy is a feeling. This coldness is not. I find the lack of emotion more frightening than anger. I've heard both. Anger makes him human. Coldness makes him something far worse that I don't know how to deal with.

I blinked and looked down; my mind was too overwrought to attempt filtering his words into coherence.

"You have always been free, but I do not have the same privilege. I cannot let you go." He shook me. "Do you understand?"

No, I did not understand. I'm not sure I do now, either. It is probable that I do not recall the words right. If I did, then I know one thing: you are wrong, Erik. I lost my freedom when you entered my life. I have never been free. It is you who _choose_ to act the way you do, not I.

I had stopped crying, but I was still dazed. You know the emptiness you feel after crying for long? That's what I felt. Nothing. A coldness of my own kind.

I nodded and he released my shoulders and pointed towards the road. "Go," he said.

"And … and you won't follow me?"

He did not reply. I did not move. I know why now. I had no energy left in me. If I had been able to run, I would not have gone far before being caught again.

And there was my second reason. Although I did not understand his words then, I had managed to decipher this: he would find me, he would drag me back with him, and there was no hope left for me. I was utterly trapped and will always be so. Caged in this place with no air, no windows, no doors. Just him and his music and his infernal obsession.

That is the reason I have not since tried to escape. The claustrophobic knowledge killed any thoughts I might have had to that effect.

He asked me if I was going to leave, one final time. I did not move. I followed his every movement with my eyes, feeling utterly dead inside. That was when I learned that feeling nothing is better than hoping. It's easier that way. I've found it easier to switch off from myself since then. I stopped fighting my lack of emotion.

Back to him. He carried me to his car, which was parked on a rutted lane some distance away. I don't know how long I was passed out in the forest that he was able to bring medical supplies and a car and still have time for me to regain consciousness. I don't want to think about it.

The last bit is left now. I'll finish it quickly and go for dinner.

He drove me back in silence. Perhaps that was because I was nearly unconscious on the back seat. My memory is unclear about that part. I remember the car jerking to a halt. Then his frigid arms under my knees and back and cold air rushing beneath me. Then a door that appeared in a blank wall. More darkness.

An immense labyrinth that seemed to wind downwards in a never-ending spiral. Or perhaps that was dizziness combined with a feverish brain. So many doors and pauses and tunnels with choking blackness. Were they in the garden?

Hades and his Underworld. Was I his Persephone, then? I'd settle for staying with him for even half a year, if it meant that I was free for the rest of it. Or was I merely a dead soul who had not even that meager freedom? My brain latches on to the oddest things when I am not in possession of it.

We finally emerged in the main passage here. I was more conscious by then. No mythology.

He brought me to my room, and sat me on the couch. Then, indicating for me to stay where I was, he left and returned a few minutes later with some ointments, bandages and an ice pack for my ankle.

He asked if I would tend the wounds on my stomach on my own, or if I would prefer he did it. I shook my head vehemently before he could finish; I did not want him anywhere near me.

He refused to leave when I asked him to. I wonder what he was thinking. He did, however, turn his back on me while I cleaned up gingerly, hastily. Having him in the room forced me out of my stupor. I don't know what energy I used for that exertion. It was fear, I think. Thank God for small mercies, Nana used to say, but I can't bring myself to do that here.

When I was done, he knelt at my feet, and gently applying the compress to my ankle, and never once looking at me, he lied again. He told me that he would release me, that he was not my captor. I shook my head, wanting to tell him to stop lying. I did not have the courage to do so.

He went on in this vein for a while until he suddenly looked up and saw my silently shaking head.

He stood up then. His voice was noticeably harsher as he pronounced my sentence. No more going up. No fresh air. He was going to lock me in my room henceforth, and perhaps I would learn where I belonged in his house.

He has kept his promise for the most part. The first few–I don't know how long–I was confined to my room because of my ankle. He got me crutches and I hobbled around awkwardly. After it healed, the door remained locked.

Only now does he let me out of my room freely. No more locked doors. Only ones that have disappeared. And … and this little hapless bird _has_ learnt her place in this prison. I no longer question him, or speak to him unless I am spoken to. I don't fight anymore.

It is very easy to typify him as an emotionless monster at moments like this, to hate him. So easy to hate him. I hate that he grovels and pretends that he exists only for my pleasure, while he is all the while the one ordering my life. I hate that he lies that he will let me go. I hate that he gives me hope and then sadistically dashes it. And most of all, I hate that he claims to love me. I don't want to be loved. I don't need to be loved.

I just need to be free.

Bella, do you think I'm a coward for not trying to fight anymore? I'm so scared all the time. Please don't judge me. I … I couldn't bear it if even you were against me. I know you aren't alive in reality, but in my mind, you are as real as your notebook form. Sometimes, I pretend that I am writing a letter to you, and that you are a real person.

You are my only friend, Bella. Please don't leave me. And never betray my secrets, either. If he ever reads what I have written here, I don't know what I will do.


	7. Murder He Wrote

**A/N**: I've had this written for a while, but I've been thrashing certain details out with my beta (who is wonderful; please applaud gravity01 for me), hence the delay. I'm sorry for that.

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**Murder He Wrote**

Some day, or perhaps night, in the year.

My Room, his House.

My dear Isabella,

I hope that this letter finds you in good health. My health continues to be as dismal as ever, but I am sure you do not want to hear about that.

My dear, dear Bella, you must learn to express yourself more adequately. You have only ever been silent ever since I met you. No matter now. I feel it incumbent upon myself to carry forward this meager conversation.

Am I mad? That would be nice, wouldn't it, Bella? I think being mad has several benefits here. Maybe I should ask him to order me some madness one of these days. On second thoughts, perhaps not. No, I don't think that is a good idea. Or is it?

Well, on the bright side, at least I can identify the madness as such. What will be disturbing is when I'm no longer able to discern between madness and normalcy. On the other bright side, if I'm that far gone, I doubt I'll care much to be disturbed. I win both ways, see? I think I'll tell him to get me some insanity tomorrow, then.

Today was not a very good day. Neither was last night, for that matter. My mind was distracted throughout his lecture on something or the other. The intricacies of Scriabin's or Dvôrak's music, no doubt, or Monteverdi's _L'Orfeo _and its significance to the operatic world.

He did not take very kindly to my inattention and lost all the solicitude he had shown when I emerged, dazed, from my room. "Concentrate, Christine!" are words I have become all too well acquainted with.

I was tired after writing so much for so long. When I am tired, I grow irritable, so I snapped back, without thinking of the consequences. He grew angrier. He threatened not to let me go if I was not serious about music. An empty threat, because he is not planning to, but it was nonetheless … frightening. I am scared of him. It must have showed on my face because he apologized after a while. His apologies mean nothing to me.

He is never abusive. He rails at me whenever I make mistakes (many), but he has never once used abusive language, though I've given him (without regret, mind you) more than enough occasion to. He has never raised his hand on me, either. Should I be grateful that he is just a psychopathic madman and not a psychopathic _abusive_ madman? I would be in a far worse situation now if he were.

Once–just once–have I seen him … I can't write it down like that. I need a build-up to the incident to build up my own courage. I don't mind bad words, but this word frightens me. It's very childish of me, but…. I wrote about it yesterday. Why he kept me here for a week.

It was one of those days when he had taken me up to the garden and left me alone. I needed to … well, I needed to return to my room for reasons that I shall not write here. I knew the way down, so I did not wait for him. I just had to go to my room, do what needed to be done, and then I'd return upstairs.

I went down the stairs silently and entered the grand living room soon enough.

There are four doors in that room. One to go upstairs, which has disappeared now; another that leads to my room; a third, which hides his room behind it; and a fourth that opens into a vast corridor that contains the entrances into the music room, the library and the rest of the rooms that I shall describe later.

Our rooms are opposite each other, so I would normally have turned away from his side to get to mine faster. However, I heard voices coming from his room.

Note that I said 'voices', not 'voice'.

One was his and the other belonged to a man speaking in a strange accent and a foreign language.

Did I say speaking? I meant shouting.

Ever curious and thirsting for human contact, especially one that seemed to disagree so vehemently with him, I made my way there instead. The door was slightly ajar and as I snuck towards it, I heard a crash and a snarl.

If I had been sensible, I would have gone right back up and stayed there until he came for me. Drawn by my infernal curiosity, however, I edged the door open, only to be greeted by the most horrific sight I have ever seen.

His red-but-normally-white hand was holding the man at least half a foot (that's a _lot_) off the ground by his neck. The other hand, equally bloody, was wresting a small box from the man's grasp. He had choked him so much that despite the man's dark skin, he was blue in the face.

I don't remember much after that. I must have gasped or cried out or made some noise, because he suddenly whipped around. The lights in his room and the living room went out. And before that, he thrust the stranger to the floor with a snarl. I backed away blindly.

The door leading upstairs was still open and some light came from there. I ran towards it, tripping over myself in my haste to get away from him. I'm not sure of anything. I remember running up the stairs two at a time. The lights went out there too. I stumbled. He caught me.

Eyes. I could only see his eyes. Blazing into mine. I don't know what happened after that.

Hysteria. Yes, definitely hysteria on my part. I refused to let him touch me. I must have screamed a lot because when my memory clears up, my throat was hoarse.

The overwhelming emotion I felt was terror. I had never seen him that angry. Fear forced everything else out of my head. There was blood all over my clothes. I only saw it much, much later. It wasn't mine. Was it his? Did I kick him, or were my feet bruised because I tripped? And the bruises on my wrists that I noticed a day later: how did I get them? I don't know. I don't want to.

The next thing I remember clearly is him dragging me back to the living room. I was no longer screaming, having realized that he was not going to kill me, but still horrified of what I had seen. I couldn't stop crying.

He made me sit on the sofa, and sat beside me. He reached for my hand, but I flinched away, cowering. I have a vivid image in my mind of him withdrawing sharply at that.

I'm not too certain what he said. I think he was trying to reassure me and explain away what I had seen. I wasn't listening. I kept darting looks over his shoulder, towards his closed door, at him, at the dark stains on his dark jacket, and at the tinge of crimson-turning-brown I could see on his shirt.

He noticed, of course. He took my hands in his to force me to listen. I could only see the blood, feel the sick, sticky stuff smearing me and staining me indelibly. Another man's blood, another man's blood. I could only think of what those very same hands had been doing a few minutes ago and what they might do to me. I struggled futilely to free myself from that sickening vice.

"Enough! I am not going to harm you!" he snarled.

I froze. Even stopped crying for a few seconds. His tone belied his words.

He said something. I don't know what. It was as if my brain had shut down everything but the Panic Mode. I tried to make myself listen, but I couldn't. Those hands, those awful hands! I wanted to throw up.

He stopped talking. My hands were still in his. The silence, normally disconcerting, was now crushing. Blood! I had to stop thinking of it. I had to break the silence. I asked him who the man was.

He looked away.

I would not have questioned him further–I did not have the nerve–but after a few seconds of agonizing silence, he said that the man was an old acquaintance.

An old acquaintance! He tried to kill his friend! Until then, I had thought that the man was an intruder or a thief or something equally sinister. A friend, for God's sake! I was so shocked that I could not speak for a few seconds.

He stared at me defiantly, daring me to judge him.

I did. Condemned unilaterally by the jury.

More silence.

Very hesitantly, I asked him if the man was still … well, you know, alive.

Annoyed, he snapped again. "How many times do I have to tell you that he is?"

I was confused, but I did not push the matter. When did he say that? I don't know. I must have asked earlier. I don't remember.

"And the … the…?" I indicated the rapidly drying stains on our hands.

No reply.

He released my hands. The blood had dried between them, so they stuck a bit. I hugged them to myself, far from his grasp. I wanted to run back to my room, but I did not. I asked him if he would still…. I couldn't bring myself to say the word, so he supplied it for me. He said that no further harm would come to that person … for the time being.

My eyes widened and I leaned away. I suddenly felt very sick in my stomach.

He sighed and stood up. Told me to go to my room and that he was going to lock the door until I learnt to not look where I was not supposed to. I obeyed him blankly.

I remember him saying, "Please do not fear me; I would never harm you." Empty words. Nothing more.

Door shut. I saw the blood on my clothes. Fumbled my way to the bathroom and retched over and over again. I kept gagging even after I had emptied my stomach and all that came up was wretched, burning bile.

Oh God, there was blood on me! And it smelled so metallic and wretched! I couldn't scrub my hands enough. I showered thrice and compulsively scrubbed so hard that my skin peeled and my blood joined the other person's. I couldn't wash my hands enough after that. Awful blood!

What I had seen was the closest I had ever come to witnessing….

The word I was scared of earlier? It's 'murder'. Erik is a murderer. At least he would have been if I had not interrupted him. Dear God, have pity on me. I'm at the mercy of a cold-blooded killer. Why can't you save me?

He kept to his word, just like after the garden escape. He did not take me up for a week, and during that time locked me into my room after lessons, only letting me out for meals.

I'm sick of memories. I have a sudden urge to rip you apart into a million little pieces and forget you ever existed. No. I'm not going to do it, but would you mind if I stuck to the present for a while, Bella? I know I wrote 'Isabella, The Memory Book' in large letters on the first page, but you've become more than mere memories to me.

Memory Keeper, Diary, Friend, Instrument for Insanity.

I'd rather not think about the side of him I discussed right now. I'll continue with why today was a bad day, instead. It might help to stop my throat from clenching and my stomach from revolting at the thought of that man.

He has been trying to perfect _bel_ _canto_ with me for a while now, but it takes up so much energy that I am unable to cope with it. And it doesn't help that I feel nothing when I sing. Earlier, there used to be something, however imperfect, that made me _want_ to continue. Now, I sing as if it is a chore. It is one of his constant complaints.

I hate this. I have never been athletic, but I have never been a delicate, wilting, flowery damsel in distress, either. It's not the distress that bothers me. I can't deny it. I'm not waiting for any knight–white or black–to rescue me, though; I've had enough of men. But I am weak, despite my best efforts. It is very aggravating not to be in control of your own body.

It took a bit of pleading on my part to get him to stop for the day. I see that he is getting increasingly frustrated with my reticence and inability to live up to his expectations. Praise comes far less readily than censure with him.

Ha. It just occurred to me that if I botch up my music more, he might begin to hate me. He told me himself that he 'fell in love with me' (his words, not mine; I'd say 'began obsessing about me') because of my voice. Take away the music and I could be free.

Oh. No, no, no. I had the most disturbing thought ever. If he hates me, he might not let me go. He might just…. Oh, God. That is a vile thought. Forget that. I did not think it. Not at all. Not at all. Not at all.

Banal trivia. Yes, that could help me forget. Banal trivia. I am running out of soap and shampoo. I need to go out and make a new list of things I need.

More banal trivia. When I first ran out of soap here, I was far too scared to ask for more. Instead, I used whatever other soapy thing I could find to have a bath. When I ran out of those as well, it took me two days of dirtiness to build up the nerve to tell him that I needed more.

He was quite taken aback. I don't think he had bothered to factor in the slight possibility that I might actually have baths and run out of soap.

Ever since then, he has kept a supply book on a coffee table in the living room. Whenever I need anything, I just go there and write it down. I can normally expect to see a neatly parceled package there a day later.

Even more banal trivia. The first ten or twelve lists all have 'Freedom' written in huge, capital letters on top. Needless to say, all these requests have been denied.

Why am I writing this, anyway? Oh. To forget. I did forget, but now I remembered again.

This is pointless. I think I'll just continue another day. The surprise is waiting for me.

Oh, right. I didn't tell you. He told me after today's drawing lesson (better than usual; I think I'm getting the hang of perspective) that he was going to give me something this evening, and that I would like it.

It will probably be some 'masterful' recording of a symphony or a concerto or something. One thing he can't do is play several instruments at once, although he's certainly gifted enough to individually play them better than anyone I have ever heard. The man is a genius. Evil, but intelligent. What a terrifying combination.

Will I be brave enough to look him in the eye today? I should not have thought of this. Memory hurts. I want to forget. Enough of bei—.

He's knocking at the door. Give me courage, someone. Let me not be afraid of him.


	8. Gifts

A/N: I wonder what people think of this story. Any comments would be welcome.

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**Gifts**

It is hard to describe what I'm feeling right now. Touched, for one. Not _happy_ happy. A bittersweet happy. Slightly angry. Gratitude, or is it gratification? More anger at myself. Shock, too. Sadness. That feeling you get when you want to hug someone really hard, but you will never see that person again? Emptiness, perhaps. And above all, a longing for what I can never have. If you can jumble all those emotions into one word, that's what I'm feeling.

Remember the surprise I was talking about yesterday? There were two. Both surpassed all my expectations, regardless of the fact that I had very low ones.

First, he took me up to the garden.

When I saw the door in the living room again, I could barely stop myself from laughing gleefully. Before he opened it, however, he made it very clear that he was only letting me go up because I was sick (I am not!) and I needed fresh air, not because he had forgotten that I had tried to escape. If I ran again, he said (and I quote), "You will never see the sky again, not even if you die for it."

Trust him to ruin a moment.

He unlocked the door and motioned me up the stairs, following close behind. By the time we reached the landing above, I was winded (I'm _not_ sick, and don't even think it! I was merely tired). We stopped there for a while. While we waited, he flicked a switch that made the lights in the stairwell unbearably bright. I winced and covered my eyes. Do you know how much it hurts to see the light after months in semi-darkness?

"It's still afternoon outside; your eyes need to adjust," was his curt explanation.

Afternoon! The sun was out! I smiled, despite myself. His eyes, which never left me, softened.

An awkward silence later, he unlocked the door of the landing and led me into the outhouse. I shouldn't call it an outhouse. Cottage, perhaps. There are three rooms there, but all are unfurnished. It's a mystery what they are intended for.

As we stepped out, I cringed again. It was indeed afternoon, and the sun was no less forgiving to a puny wisp of a person who had not seen it for months, than to any other. How it burned my arms and my face! It felt wonderful. If I close my eyes, I can still feel the heat on my skin.

He stood aside, watching me as I stepped forward, awkwardly, hesitantly, glancing back at him for permission to do so. He stood aside, without a word, when I kicked off my sandals to feel the grass better and stepped ahead, taking his silence as acquiescence. Such an odd figure, he cut, standing as he did near the incongruously ugly, concrete hut, a dark shadow against a near-white screen.

I closed my eyes, the better to appreciate the fresh air and warmth and the sounds. It is peculiar to be warm again, after such a long winter. I wondered if it would ever end at all. Or was it a dream and has the winter never ended? I am still here, am I not? No, it cannot be. See that on my dresser, Bella? It looks real. It feels solid when I touch it. It could not have been a dream, could it?

In my dream or not, I suddenly felt an enormous sense of gratitude towards him; I would have thanked him profusely had it not suddenly occurred to me that I was behaving like a dog, delighted to receive the tiniest scrap from a master that habitually kicked it.

I left the words unsaid, begrudged, and ventured further ahead. I could hear birds, the sounds of openness. Have I ever told you about the deafeningly deathly silence down here? It's like a huge weight that presses down on you all the time. It nearly drove me mad at first, and it also made me seek him out, if only to escape from that infernal lack-of-noise.

One final glance at him for permission made me notice that he was edging towards me. I noticed then that he was fidgeting with his collar. He only does that when he is nervous about something.

He began speaking slowly, hesitantly, as if unsure of how I would react. "I … Christine … I—Erik" (he has a disconcerting habit of referring to himself in the third person), "has something else … for you … a … a gift, you could say. I—would you like to see it?"

His nervousness rubbed off on me. I smiled unsurely and nodded and mumbled a yes. He held out his hand for mine, and I reluctantly gave it. Then, still fiddling with his collar, he led me further into the depths of the garden, to a little pond, complete with fountain and statues. It's my favourite place there.

There are four or five marble benches around it (he has a tendency to over-furnish; even the house is filled with sofas and chairs and couches that he certainly does not need), and requesting me to sit on one, he fished behind it and produced a small rectangular package that was wrapped in brown paper and string.

Thrusting it into my hands, he muttered something about leaving me to open it in peace and that he hoped I liked it, and then turned on his heel. I don't know why I called him back and asked him to stay.

Very reluctantly, he returned. He stood facing the fountain, with his back to me as I untied the package. When I saw what was inside, I gasped and began to cry despite myself. It certainly could not have been a dream. I would never have thought of this, even in my wildest, most feverish imaginations.

The moment he heard my sobs, he strode off towards the house. By the time I regained my senses, he was gone. I never enter the house alone now, so I stayed upstairs, alone, waiting for and wanting him to come back, and drowning in memories.

Oh, Erik. Of all the things in the world that you could have given me, this was the least expected. Sometimes, I think that you are the most knuckle-headed and emotionless idiot I have ever come across, but then you do something like this and I am forced to think that you have far more intuition than any man I have ever known. Why must you do things like this?

The gift was a framed watercolour of three people: my father, my mother, and my grandmother. They were all smiling, I felt, at me. He has used the barest minimum of strokes, but they are accurate; even when I look at it now, after almost a day, I feel my throat well up. I will never see any of them again, you see, even if I leave this place. They are all quite dead.

I know you know about Papa. I did not want to talk about Mama and Nana then because I did not want to remember that when I read you again. Those wounds are much closer and deeper. Now, he has precipitated any plans I might have had of bringing it up later. At any rate, I will not talk of them now. It hurts too much.

I was examining it more closely when I noticed that he had written something on the back of the frame in his near-illegible writing. After some squinting and reading it from different angles, I deciphered this: "May you lever–something–that blue hardiness is; may you kind it–something, something–day."

It made no sense. A few more moments like this and a shadow fell across my lap and the frame. I looked up to find him there. Hastily swiping the last stray tears from my face, I smiled a tiny, sad smile (it felt like that to me, anyway) and asked him to read out the message.

He did not take the frame, but never once moving his eyes off my face, he told me what it was. "May you never forget what true happiness is; may you find it again one day."

I did not say anything. I did not have to. The smile grew and I impulsively reached out and pressed his hand. He stiffened initially, but then relaxed and squeezed my hand back. It is the first, and perhaps last, time I have initiated contact with him.

He inquired softly if I would like to go inside, and I shook my head vehemently. No more darkness! He nodded as if he understood, then gently pried his fingers from my grasp and turned.

"Where are you going?"

"Inside. I presume you want to be alone."

I asked if he would stay with me.

He started at that. Said something to the effect of being under the impression that he was not exactly my favourite person in the world. He said it more eloquently, of course. I merely paraphrase.

I wanted to be with someone then. Anyone. I told him that in politer words, and looking slightly dazed, he sat next to me.

Neither of us spoke for a long while.

Then he asked me if I missed them very much. That set off the flood. I ended up wallowing in memories and crying. He did not try to comfort me; it might have been due to that argument I had on the day I started writing in you. He did not leave either, which was good.

When the tears dried up, I changed the subject. I think I blindsided him when I asked if he believed in God. He is an atheist, not surprisingly.

He asked me what I believe in. I used to believe; I must have amused him with my adolescent religious views, back when he was merely a voice. When things like this happen to you, however, you start to doubt the existence of a benevolent god. I told him as much.

"You believe in a malicious god, then?" I could hear the smile in his voice. Perhaps my views still amuse him.

"No. I don't believe in anything or anyone. I don't think there's any purpose to life."

"I never thought you would become a nihilist." He was serious now. Why?

"A nihilist?"

"It is a philosophy that…."

And that was how we started talking. I do not think I have had such a conversation with him since before I came here.

It reminded me about what I have forgotten since I came here; it is perhaps the most important memory of this book. Once upon a time, I was happy because even after my father's music had died, I had Erik's. For one brief, shining period after my private apocalypse, I had a normal, loving mother, a normal, loving grandmother, and beautiful music. Temporary, fleeting bliss, killed by his voice taking over my life.

Can I subsist on memories? I don't know. For once, however, I cannot be bitter about what he has done to me. His gift has reminded me of the time before he brought me here, when I respected and obeyed him because I wanted to, when I was not afraid of him (except when I thought he was a stalker), when I was happiest when I heard his voice and listened to his music.

He wants more than I can give, but if I give what I can–what _can_ I give? I can't think of anything– perhaps … I don't know what. Perhaps he will see it for what it is. And then what? I don't know.

I am sorry, Erik. I cannot love you. You have hurt me far too much for me to let you in. I wish I could tell you that you are pursuing a lost cause, but I don't think that I will ever build up the courage to. I am a coward, am I not? Pathetic.

We spoke for a long time. From Nihilism, we went on to Marx (Karl, not Groucho) Stalin and Russia, then the French Revolution and the excesses of the aftermath.

I learnt yesterday that he is keenly interested in the failings of mankind, he seems to have a personal vendetta against the world, and that he is far more cynical than I. And he knows an awful lot, and for once, I did not feel pressurised to keep up with him. How do you learn more about someone in a day than you do over months? It is what has happened with Erik and I.

The conversation became slightly gruesome somewhere around World War II (_horrible!_), so he told me stories of some old British kings instead. Edgar, was it? And Ethelred the Unready, I think.

The garden became darker, the sun set. I made no move to go in, and neither did he. I was hungry, but I was far too busy relishing the cool night air mingled with his voice to want to go in.

At one point, he got up, saying he would be back soon, and left me alone in the dark. I shivered, but it was a nice shivering. Open darkness is better than closed, locked-door darkness. He returned some time later with three blankets, a torch, and a basket of food. I wrapped myself in the blankets and gorged.

Stars began to appear in the sky. Venus first, brightest of all stars, then other minor ones whose names I did not know. As the night wore on and the food basket slowly emptied itself, he pointed out constellations, and told me the stories behind them. He showed me how to find Polaris, and explained the geographical reason for its apparent motionlessness. It's more interesting than it sounds. Trust me.

I must have dozed off at some point of time because the last thing I remember is something about the Aquila, the lightning-bearing eagle of Zeus. I ought to ask him about that again. I woke up in the middle of the night, in my bed and fully clothed. Half-asleep, I changed and collapsed back.

I noticed the painting lying face down on my bedside table only this morning. When I saw it, I did not smile. I miss them so much, Bella! But it's a distant sort of missing, like an old cut whose scab has peeled off. At least he has ensured one thing. I will never forget their faces now. I have stood it on my dresser so that I can look at it every day. And I can see it and feel it.

Do you know that I often wonder if this place is real at all? Perhaps I went mad after all that happened to me before this, and I'm truly not trapped by anything except my own mind. All these physical reminders—the books, the music, the painting, warmth, the garden, coldness—all these could be inventions, couldn't they? Even you, Bella. I don't think you exist either. But then why do I find ink dots on my hand sometimes, and why does my wrist ache? Compensation by the brain?

And Erik? Is he real? What was that voice I heard for so many years, if it was not real? I do not think I could imagine his music.

Could I?

So much time without any moorings on reality has disoriented me. No, not disoriented. Dashed me into pieces, with nowhere to go to bring myself back together. I no longer know what is real and what is not.

Today's lesson (if it existed) was much better than it has been for a while. I sang today. Really, truly sang. When I say that, I mean that I _felt_ what I was singing again. And you know what the best part is? He noticed. He praised me. It's so rare! I basked in it. It still makes me smile at the thought. I know that the dog-like behaviour is there again, but I will not regret it. I need some kindness, don't I? It makes me more … alive.

It is … interesting. I felt what I sang, but when I stopped, the emptiness came back. Does singing make me more alive, more than kindness?

Something has changed in our relationship once again. I am readier to jump at whatever scraps he doles out, and he is readier to dispense them. Earlier, I snatched what I could, but resentfully.

The lesson was strange for another reason, too. He kept on looking at me as if he could not quite believe I was standing in front of him and smiling. I had forgotten what it was to be happy. Perhaps he has forgotten too? I do not think I will ever be free (of myself or of him?), but if I can have such moments of brief joy, I think I can be content.

No! What am I saying? I can't be thinking of accepting him!

I am tired of fighting, but I must. It is easier to give in, but to lose my freedom forever…? No, it cannot happen. But who do I fight? Which one is real? I cannot win against him, and I do not know how to fight against myself.

Am I betraying myself by being happy and smiling and laughing? Perhaps I am behaving like the dog I so despised myself to be yesterday. Perhaps? No. It's true. I am behaving like a dog.

I don't know what is right or wrong anymore. I desperately want to be normal again. That is all.

Do you remember that conversation Erik and I had about acceptance? I think I have an answer now. However grudging it is, he is irrevocably a part of my life. And yesterday proved that I can speak to him as I once used to. I don't know if that is acceptance. It is the closest I can get, I suppose. One question down, several to go.

Why would I imagine such an existence? If this is truly a hallucination, then wouldn't I have been able to free myself earlier? Wouldn't I have imagined a better place, surrounded by those I love?

The nightmare improves. He said that he will take me up to the garden every day now. Also that I was not getting enough exercise down here, and that he was sorry he had not addressed this issue earlier. Again, I felt that gratitude for favours unasked for, but yet secretly hoped for.

What a life! What a life, indeed.


	9. Discord

**Discord**

One week. One week since I first started writing in you. As I was flipping through you earlier today, I've noticed that my rhetoric against him has slowly reduced in its intensity. It's not that I have changed so dramatically. I think I was letting out all my feelings that have been stored up for so long and I am now coming back to the state I was in when I first began writing: confusion.

I find it hard to reconcile myself with the two wildly different images I have of Erik. On one side is the stalker, the murderer, the kidnapper, the controller. On the other side is the musician, the artist, the … man. The two are so different; I find it hard to believe that he is the same person.

One moment, he is sweet and pleasant, and the next, bam! He goes into angry mode, and God forbid I should anger him further. I sometimes wonder if he has schizophrenia. Or is it multiple personality disorder? I never could remember which is which.

If only he would stop oscillating, I would find it easier to define him. There doesn't seem to be any middle ground either, or if there is, I haven't seen it. Or perhaps I haven't noticed it. I don't even know what he looks like, so I can only rely on his eyes and gestures to decipher his actions.

I don't think I will ever see his face. Is it because my brain was unable to manufacture a face, and hence put a mask on him, or is he real and has he always worn that mask, or does he wear it to hide from me, or do I expend far too much energy in such musings? It cannot really matter, can it?

If he is not real, what will I see behind the mask? Will his face disintegrate and will I wake up from this nightmare?

When did things move from dreams to reality? (Is it the other way around?) I cannot say. He made the shift from haunting my dreams to being a major presence in my life very gradually. I became moodier as he did so. I was only truly happy when I heard his voice. When he was not there (often), I withdrew into myself completely. During that awful transition when I was terrified he would leave me, I turned away from everyone else. He was my only friend, the only one who 'understood'. I think he 'understood' more than I ever anticipated.

Mama persuaded me to go to a counsellor for treatment after a few months of extreme moodiness. I went reluctantly, complaining to the voice all the way about having to go. He told me that I should lie or they would take me away and lock me up and he would have to leave me.

You evil conniving man, I did just that because I trusted you. I told the counsellor that I was stressed out with school, that I fought with Mama often, that I missed my father. I manipulated everything. I think it was my fear of losing you that helped me to lie so effectively. In the end, the counsellor said that all I suffered from was mundane adolescence and that I'd grow out of it soon enough.

I wonder what would have happened if I hadn't been so naïve that I thought that all he cared for was my well-being. Would he have left me if I had told the counsellor everything? I've had so many chances to end this all, even before it began and I did nothing. I truly did bring this upon myself. Right until I came here, I could have stopped everything, but I did not. I don't know who to hate more: him or myself.

What would _you_ think if you heard a voice in your head whenever you were alone, and if nobody else could hear it? Would you believe it as blindly as I? I thought I was mad for a while. Then I began to fear stalkers when I remembered those letters. Then I thought I was mad again because the letters had disappeared and I did not know if they had ever existed. I grew dependant on him. By the time he left for a year before he brought me here, I'd accepted him as an irreplaceable part of my life.

It took that long year to shake off his hold over me. It wasn't easy. Everything I had done since I had been fifteen had been with his voice and his music in mind. Now, with that anchor gone and Nana too (she passed away when I was eighteen; old age, the doctors said), I had no sense of direction. It was only Mama and I for a while—we finally reconciled with each other over this year, and I came to realise how much I loved her. Then, halfway through that year, she passed away too.

I was left with nothing. If Kate and Raoul had not been there for me, I don't know what I would have done, Bella. I really don't know. The thought of it scares me.

When I came here and realised the truth, I was furious. All I wanted to do was to rip into him and tear him apart for ruining my life. I was too scared to do anything in the beginning. Later, when I had assured myself that he would not hurt me, I did shout and yell and hit him as hard as I could. Why didn't he respond?

Do you remember I told you about that time he spoke to me in a dream and promised me all sorts of things if I would obey him? I inadvertently told Mama about that the next day. She immediately started questioning me further: had I had dreams like that earlier? what did the voice say exactly? what did I say in response? I got annoyed and walked out.

I wonder now if she had some sort of maternal intuition that warned her that the dreams were dangerous. They _were_ dangerous.

So much of that part of my life has blurred up into one big gloop of melted ice-cream; the flavours that seemed so varied when I went through them have now become indistinguishable from each other. Am I senile? I am losing my memory at far too young an age.

Oh, no. Why, why, _why_ must I always think these stupid thoughts? I just thought of what it would be like to spend an eternity here. I am only twenty-one. I have at least fifty years ahead of me. That's over twice the time I've lived! Fifty!

Another oh, no. I _hate_ my brain. Hate it, hate it, hate it. He is far older than I. I'd say forty, at least (ugh! twice my age!). What if he dies first and I am left here alone? I don't know how to get out. He hides all the doors except those he wants me to see. He told me as much. Stuck down here forever, slowly running out of food and then….

_Why_ must I think this way? I would have been perfectly happy to have not thought this and simply gone through life one day at a time. I hate the future. I need to get it out of my head.

Today, today, today. What happened today? This afternoon, after a short nap, I ventured out and found him in the music room, writing something. I rarely go there after lunch; he seemed surprised. I asked if he would play for me, and putting his papers away, he did.

He played some Prokofiev at the piano for a while, then his own compositions. After some more of this, he sang (he has the most beautiful voice I have ever heard. I don't know if I've mentioned it before; at any rate, it is worth mentioning again). Next, he asked if I would sing too. I did.

_Music for a while shall all your cares beguile_, indeed. Purcell is one of my favourite Baroque composers.

Do I still hate music? Perhaps I hate what it has come to represent. How do I define this? How can I? Hating it is to hate myself. I think I do hate myself at some level. But I don't hate myself. I hate him. I don't hate him.

I don't know what I know. I know somewhere that I should be thinking of my rights as a human being. I know that nobody ought to be able to do this to anyone and get away with it. I know that he terrifies me one moment, and enraptures me the next. I know that if I ever regain my freedom, I should go to the police and beg for their protection and demand revenge. I also know that all this knowledge is irrelevant because I will never act on it.

Oh, Bella. What did I do? Has he done something to me, or was it my own fault? Why does he like me? WHY ME??

.

I'm sorry. I didn't mean to shout. I'm so angry at myself, at him, at everyone.

What am I thinking of? How could I ever have imagined that music would suffice to make me forget every single thing he has done to me? He has taken away my freedom, he has terrorized me, he has stalked me, he has messed with my mind. All this, and I considered forgetting? I cannot stop fighting. I just cannot.

He has nearly broken me down into what I despise. Why do I consider it such a favour to be able to go outside? What crime have I committed to be here, to be grateful to my jailor? What has he done that I have forgotten all this?

No. I will not forget who he is, and why I am here. This is not my fault at all. It is all him, him, him.

Love! If he wants love, he ought to have approached me like normal men do. My love is not his prerogative, nor anyone else's.

How do I contain the hate, Erik? You have made me what I am. I cannot accept you. Ever.

Anger. It's good. But not now.

Now, I want to forget everything.

Today, before we went up to the garden, and after the drawing lesson, I picked up a book at random from the library. It was called _On Death and Dying_ by some doctor or the other. I don't know why I picked it up. Morbid curiosity, I suppose.

I flipped through it. Most of it was psychological mumbo-jumbo and went right over my head. I was about to give it up as a lost cause and get another book when I noticed one bit. It was about the emotions one feels when one loses a loved one or has a terminal illness. Grief cycle, was it? I think so.

It doesn't quite apply to me, to be honest, but I related to some of the stages in that they reminded me of my reactions when I first came here. What were they again? Denial, Anger, Bargaining, Depression, and Acceptance. Yes, that's what they were.

I experienced two-and-a-half out of five stages: no Denial (I'd have to be very thick not to notice it was happening to me), a _lot_ of Anger (more on that soon), never thought of Bargaining, Depression (I have vivid memories, but I'd rather not recall them), and some sort of Acceptance. Could be better. I didn't read further; Erik asked if I would like to join him in a game of Scrabble.

As for the Anger story. It is at best amusing, at worst highly embarrassing. The more I think of putting it down on paper, the more I cringe at the memory. Nothing works like the direct approach, though. I won't linger.

Remember how he provided me with a supply book? This was some time before that, only a few days after I came here. I was mortally terrified of him. I only emerged from my room when he insisted on it. Oh, when I say 'insisted', I mean 'forced'. Terror clogs most of my memories of those days. This memory is clear only because of the anger.

Not once during those hellish first days did I ever think of menstruation. Big mistake. I went creeping to the bathroom one morning for my bath and was horrified to find blood. Of course, I couldn't go out, but I had to.

I improvised. No, I'm not going to give you details. Some things are best left unsaid. Having secured myself (somewhat), I crept back out and ransacked the closet (I did not yet regard it as mine) for anything resembling a sanitary napkin. Nothing. I ransacked the bathroom next. Still nothing. I went back out to see if I'd missed something. Nothing in the dresser, either.

My frustration peaked. Frustration combined with hormones leads to anger, and I was ready to confront him and kill him and do other horrible things to him when he knocked on the room door. I was near naked! Out went all thoughts of retribution. I scuttled to the bathroom and locked the door behind me.

He knocked twice or thrice, calling out for me. I did not reply, but pulled on clothes. However filthy they might get, they were better than him seeing me….

The knocks turned into thuds, then the click of the handle turning and he entered. He called out again, louder. Then, he came over to the bathroom and hammered on the door.

"Christine! What are you doing in there?"

I almost laughed hysterically, but settled for a silent shaking instead. I was so scared!

"Christine!"

The fear slowly galvanised itself into something harder.

"Come out right now, Christine, or I'll open the door." More knocking.

Anger. Boiling, raging anger that refused to be contained.

"You come in and I'll kill you, you evil psychopath!" Or something to that effect. I have the distinct impression that I used fouler language.

Silence outside for a moment, then, "Christine … come out, or I _will_ enter."

"Like hell you will! I'm not coming out!"

"I don't want to do thi—."

"I don't care what you want! I _can't_ come out!"

That silenced him for a moment. Then, through gritted teeth, "Why can't you come out?"

That silenced _me_. How on earth was I supposed to explain to him that—. Well, yes. I settled for the angry route. "Where did you keep the sanitary napkins?"

"The towels? Aren't they on the rack?"

I could have screamed. In fact, I did. "Argh! Did it ever occur to you that I'm a _woman_!"

I can almost imagine his eyes narrowing. "I beg your pardon?"

"W-O-M-A-N, woman. Female. You know, the fairer sex, and all that?"

"How is this relevant to anything, Christine? Stop this nonsense at once."

He is so thick. How could he not have understood? "Dammit, don't you know the least thing about women? Do I need to spell it out further?"

Pause. Then drily, "Please. Enlighten me."

"I don't believe this. Didn't you ever have sex education in school?"

"_What?_"

"Oh, c'mon! Women. Every month. Please tell me you know about that."

There was a longer silence.

"I don't believe this! I don't believe you! I'm not going to sit here the entire day or night or whatever the hell it is and give you a stupid effing lecture on menstruation!" My cheeks were burning. When I glanced into the mirror, they were red. I still can't believe it. How on earth did he not know about it?

There was a short, embarrassed, "Ah," at the other side of the door. Perhaps he did know.

"_Well?_ Where are they?"

A longer, more embarrassing silence. "I will have to procure them," he finally admitted.

He didn't have them! I blew up. "You _idiot_! How the hell did it _not_ occur you to get them? You know my bra size and you didn't think about _that_? How long have you been stalking me? Six years? Seven? And you've never seen me buy them? What is _wrong_ with you?"

"I apologise. This was my fault and—."

"Of _course_ it's your fault! Just get the hell out of here and out of my stupid mucked up life!"

"Christine…."

"Get _out_!"

And he did. I heard the room door click as it shut and I sank to the floor, shivering. All the adrenaline that had fuelled my anger drained out of me. There he was, my captor with the incredibly beautiful and threatening voice, who had stalked me for years, and there I was, the defenceless and vulnerable girl who was too silly to see the truth for it was. And I, the silly girl, had just hurled abuses at him. What was I _thinking_? No, scratch that. I wasn't thinking at all.

What was he going to do to me?

I remained huddled on the floor until I became conscious of a sticky wetness on my clothes. Horrified and disgusted at myself (_ew_! I'd never have let it happen if I'd been thinking straight), I stripped and huddled in the tub instead. The last thing I wanted to do was go out and face him. He seemed to be of the same view, for I heard no more of him for a few hours.

He knocked on the door as I was about to nod off to sleep.

"Christine?"

Instantly alert, I groped around for something I could defend myself with in case he was still angry with me. I found a shampoo bottle. He knocked again. I cautiously replied, "Yes?"

"Your—I have—the things you wanted … they're here, on the side table."

I didn't reply.

"I must apologise, Christine. This transgression is unforgivable. I…."

Unforgivable, indeed! What about the kidnapping and stalking part? That was perfectly fine, wasn't it? I didn't say that, though; the adrenaline had gone. I was polite little Christine now. "I…. It's fine. Thank you. Could you leave now? I need to…."

"Yes. Yes, certainly."

I waited for ten minutes after he had gone, then proceeded to bathe again and finally felt clean. Ugh, filthy, filthy, filthy I was. It makes me shudder to think of it even now.

When I went out much later, drawn by my growling stomach, I was scared of what he would do. I didn't see him immediately when I entered; I started and skittered behind a few steps when he stood up, always so imposing in those early days. He made no mention of the earlier incident. His only question was whether I wanted to eat or not. I was too jittery to speak, so I merely nodded. Food was laid out in the dining room; I ate my meal (I was still disoriented then; I could never make out which meal was which) silently, until he asked me if I wanted to spend the rest of the day resting. I jumped at the chance.

Call me manipulative, but ever since then, I've always used my menstruation to get a couple of days of rest from him. It works like a charm. All I have to do is lie in bed, moaning with–real, or imagined–pain, and he'll let me be. I know what you're thinking and I know that I've fallen a few scales in your esteem, Bella, but don't you judge me now. I don't want you to. I have few freedoms here and I will do anything to get more. I no longer care how they are procured.

I know this is crude, but it's also how I keep time here. I won't go into details of my cycle, but they are very regular. Give or take a few weeks, that's how I know I've been here for half a year.

And it also serves as a marker of sorts. I went from Fear to Anger about then.

Now, enough of embarrassing stories. I'm dead tired. I want to sleep. I think it's well past the time I normally go to sleep.


	10. Dichotomy

**Dichotomy**

Blast, blast, blast! I am such a big idiot. Idiot, idiot, idiot. I feel like banging my head against the wall, or kicking myself, or both. _How_ could I have been _so_ careless?

He knows about you.

It's entirely my fault. I have been feeling too lazy to open out the drawer and stick you behind it, so I've been leaving you on my desk and putting some papers over you. Today, however, Ms. Incredibly Clever (I, if you have any doubts) did not hide you under papers and went out with you left completely exposed.

After today's lesson, I ate lunch alone; he was too occupied in tuning the piano to join me. I dawdled over the meal. He was very generous with his praise today (one good thing!), so I wasted a great deal of time recalling that. His praise is so rare, it feels like … the sun. Oh, I know that's not a normal metaphor, but that's what it feels like—a precious commodity that must be treasured.

When I finally emerged from the dining room into the corridor that leads to all the other rooms, I found him carrying a large carton of things I'd asked for in that supply book. He told me that he would put it in my room, so it would be easier for me to arrange everything. He does that a lots, so naturally I held the door open for him. I was merely trying to be helpful. So far, so good.

He entered my room, placed the carton on a coffee table, and waited while I extracted all the assorted items he had brought. It must have been around then that he began to fiddle around with all the papers on my desk. All I know is that when, with a soap bottle in my hand, I looked up, I saw him thumbing through you.

I panicked and over-reacted and panicked some more. Snatched you from him. Told him that it (you) was personal. He asked if he could read you. Stupid me, instead of dissembling and being vague, told him that you were my diary. Big mistake. I can still see the way his eyes changed when I said that. He was suddenly more interested and looked at you very calculatingly.

His eyes disconcerted me. I wanted to run away and hide you, but I could not. We stood, staring at each other. I suddenly became acutely aware of the fact that if he chose to, he could easily take you away from me and read what I have written. The moment passed. His shoulders loosened and he told me that he would not read you without my permission.

Do I trust him despite that? I don't think I do. He has lied so often, my dear Bella, that I no longer know what to believe. At any rate, I must hide you and I have found a better place. Under my bed, there is a hollow space between the base of the mattress and wooden slats that support it. I discovered it when I first came here and was trying to hide from him. I can roll you up and stuff you there. Unless he crawls under the bed, it is unlikely he will discover you.

So much for that. I'll try to forget it happened.

I was flipping through you (again) when I woke up this morning and it struck me that I'm far more vociferous and vocal with you than with him. This afternoon, while I dawdled over lunch, I came up with a theory that could explain why I subdue myself around him.

Consider if you will, two people.

Imagine Christine. She's been around for a while, but has recently disappeared. She had thick, curly, blonde hair and a healthy, ruddy complexion. She was never fat, but she had muscles that she used. She was confident and self-assured, and never faltered in professing her opinion of anyone or anything. She knew many people, but was close to only a few. She was fiercely loyal to those few, and would do anything for them.

Now imagine _christine_, a recently born person. She has lank blonde hair that falls out in clumps. Her eyes are lined with dark circles that resemble bruises and have sunk into their sockets. Her skin is near white and you can see her veins through it. You could count her ribs if you tried. She stumbles and loses control of her limbs more often than she cares to count. When she walks, her head is always bowed and she rarely makes eye contact while speaking. When she sits, she always brings her knees up, so as to curl into a ball. She is a nervous, cowed down creature.

Christine and _christine_ are related. They live in the same body, but _christine_, defying all definitions of weakness, is stronger. She is more capable of facing Erik than Christine, who lost all her battles with him. c_hristine_ knows that she will never win and has accepted it. Christine lost hope and that was why _christine_ took over. Someone had to.

_christine_ is less human. She locks all her emotions away and saves them for Christine. Christine comes out less frequently, so she feels less. On the rare occasions that Christine emerges in front of Erik when they are not singing, she blunders and stumbles and loses control. Her other part _hates_ losing control and takes over soon enough.

The one who can truly sing is Christine because she knows what emotions are. When _christine_ dominates, she is only a shadow of the talent Christine knows she has.

Christine is the one who writes in you, Isabella. If _christine_ wrote more often, there would be little but a recounting of the exact events of the day. No memories. _christine_ has no scope for memories.

Christine used to ask Erik questions like, "Where did you get all your money from?" ("You would not like the answer"), "How old are you?" ("Old enough"), "How long have you been stalking me?" ("Not as long as you think"), and "What kind of a sick person are you?" ("I can assure you that I am in good health.").

On the other hand, _christine_ asks questions like, "May I have some salt, please?" ("Of course"), "Could we please stop for the day?" ("How about one last song, first?"), "What is the time?" ("Four o'clock, my dear"), and "…?" which isn't a question at all.

Christine is more alive, but she is dying. If _christine_ could feel, she would feel regret at the life that will be lost with Christine's death. She does not know how to feel, however, or how to succour Christine, so she watches apathetically as her fellow withers away. One day, I will only be _christine_ and my life with Christine will be a vague memory, if that.

Who is this 'I'? By being able to see the dichotomy between Christine and _christine_, do I have a third omniscient—so to speak—entity within me? Or is that entity Christine now, who knows and accepts that she is disintegrating with each day spent in this crushing atmosphere? Maybe I am neither when I write. Is this the _real_ 'me'?

Does it make sense to you? It makes sense to me.

I don't want to spend my life as _christine_, but I feel safer that way. Is it better to live a dead life, or to die, having lived? I was never obsessed with mortality before I came here.

I wonder if Erik is the same: two people living in one body. Could that explain the irrational mood swings?

Let me see what I know about him. Most of this was culled over games of checkers and walks in the garden.

He does not care for his parents and he does not like discussing his childhood. He sneered at mine, in fact. Yes, thank you very much, Erik. From what I managed to extricate, he wandered all over the world as an adolescent, and later as an adult. He spent some time in the East, where he said he first learned how cruel men could get, then in the Middle East, where this knowledge was compounded into hard fact. He did not elaborate on the reasons, and I never asked. He left the Middle East several years ago, and did not settle anywhere until he found me. (Thank you again; that was a most gratifying compliment.)

When he first noticed me, at the Gala as I suspected, he extended his visit to my city ("Business that you might find nasty") in order to fully ascertain my talent. He told me yesterday that my suspicions were true; he had sent me those notes. I let _christine_ take over before Christine wrought any damage by reacting; I don't know yet if he would have left me alone if I had ignored his notes.

He did go on to say, however, that he had originally intended to procure an instructor for me, but thought better of the idea once he heard me sing his song. All with a disconcertingly adoring look in his eyes, as he leaned towards me. Christine fought briefly for control, but _christine_ won out. Ought I say 'thankfully'? Perhaps. Peace was maintained, at any rate and he went on uninterrupted.

He decided to see how responsive I was to music; that was the night he first played to me: he was satisfied. He boasts of a 'system', a network that can run itself. He executed (was there a particular reason he used this precise word?) some important commitments and cancelled others, then made arrangements for it to move on without him.

Increasingly fascinated by the prospect of tutoring a voice with such potential (bah, humbug!), he settled down here. Or is it 'here' anymore? He settled down, then, in the same city as I was in. He says that he did not realise how much in love with me he was until Kate told me that Raoul had a crush on me and I grinned at the idea. He grew jealous of Raoul (the thought of it!) and—.

Right about then, Christine took over and retreated back here, after a few biting comments. I think I'm _christine_ now. Christine would have spewed vitriolic rhetoric against him here.

I went back and apologised some time later. It was _christine's_ doing, not mine. I don't know if he's angry with me or not. Oh, he said that I should not let it worry me and then asked if I wanted to listen to music. (It seems to have become his escape route from awkward situations.) I said yes, but it did not alleviate the tension a bit. We certainly did not continue talking.

I miss them, Bella, but they seem so far away. I want to talk to them once more, even if it were to say goodbye.

This depresses me.

I think I'll reconstruct the rest of his story from what I know. He has several hideouts all over the world, but this has always been his main … headquarters, shall I say? He said a long time ago that when he started working on it, it merely consisted of two rooms: a small garret that later expanded into the music room, and a tiny bathroom that has since disappeared. When I asked him where we were, he did not answer directly. I don't think we're anywhere near home.

I don't know … I feel so … _small_ … when I think of what he has done to have me here with him. It used to make me feel claustrophobic and trapped, but now I'm able to stop the panicking.

I don't understand him at all. I know all this about him, but it changes nothing, explains nothing. A nagging feeling tells me that all the answers lie behind his mask. I would know for certain whether or not I am mad, and why he wears it, and if I'm ever going to leave here.

I wonder if I'm dead. Anything is possible.

He knows about you Bella. Why, oh why am I so stupid? And now I'm sleepy. All I want is to just curl up and sleep righ

* * *

A/N: Once again, the word cutting short is intentional. Hope you enjoyed!


	11. Descent

**Descent**

Sorry about last night, Bella. I fell off to sleep at the desk and woke up some time later. I was too tired to complete what I was saying, so I just hid you away and went back to sleep. Going up to the garden hasn't helped much yet. I'm still weaker than I was. But the sun! I don't care if I stay like this forever; to feel the sun on my face is the most glorious gift I could ever receive.

I've been thinking about your name and I've come to the conclusion that it lends itself perfectly to deconstruction. Isabella, sabella, abella, bella, ella, lla, la, a. See : isn't that pretty?

Now, Erik's name, now that's a poser. Once upon a time, it used to be such an innocuous name. I knew an Eric, y'know. He was a lift attendant in my building. He was nice. I wonder what's become of him now. The last I saw of him was the day….

Bella, I don't know if I want to talk about this now. I've avoided it for so long that sometimes I wonder if it ever happened. I don't think I can ignore it any longer. It scares me, though.

What should I do?

.

I paced a bit, then decided that it's best to write it out of me forever. I think that's why I call you a Memory Book: you take all my memories out of me and into you. Thank you, Belle.

The day I was kidnapped was undoubtedly one of the worst I've ever lived. Oh, no. Thinking about it now makes my heart start pounding. Courage, Christine.

It started off banally. I went to college, returned, brewed a cup of bitter coffee, and began to work on an overdue paper. I don't even remember what the paper was anymore. Why not? A few hours into this, there was a knock on my door. Nobody had buzzed from outside, so I thought it was the neighbour who wanted something or the other. She was always borrowing stuff.

It wasn't her, though. I opened the door and two awful men with guns walked in. All my memories after that are whitewashed with fear. Stray images and words are all I can recall now.

They terrify me more than Erik does. For what it's worth, I know him a bit and I know he would never harm me. Those men … they looked like regular businessmen: dressed well and speaking so … _nicely_.

The politeness scared me the most. They called me Ms. Forster and asked me to put on a coat as if I were going out and (most genial of all) that if I shouted, they would not hesitate to shoot. The 'please's and the 'thank you's are emblazoned across my mind. Polite-and-Thin and Polite-and-Thinner, they were.

They forced me downstairs somehow—was it the fire exit? I can't say. Mr. Thinner held the gun at my back, while Mr. Thin led the way towards the car. I'm not sure. He opened the rear door and requested me to get inside. I looked around desperately, trying to stall until someone—anyone!—saw the gun and what was happening, when I spotted Eric the Liftman.

Thinner must have figured out that I was going to scream because he suddenly shoved me inside and slammed the door behind him. I _think_ he put the gun away because I didn't see it anymore and that gave me the courage to yell out. That's when I noticed that someone else was in the car, because a hand clamped itself around my mouth and called to Thin to drive away. I struggled and struggled, but they were stronger.

I should have known they wouldn't hurt me. I should have screamed earlier. I should have fought. Don't you see, Bella, how it's entirely my fault? I should have done _some_thing.

Mr. Unknown said something to Thinner, I think, because while Unknown held me down, Thinner stretched out his hand and—.

And I don't know what. I passed out then, or I blanked out, or…. I don't know what. I don't want to know. I … don't. What they did, what I don't remember…. _He_ told me that nothing happened to me in that car. I desperately want to believe him. He is so … obsessive–no, not obsessive–possessive of … of, well, me, that he would not let anything happen. Or so I hope. He has no way of knowing what they did.

I don't want to think about this. If I do, then it will be real. It can never be real. I have nightmares about it, sometimes. Worse than the ones about him…. The unknown is so much worse than the known—no, partially known, I must say.

To return. Because the prospect of that is far worse than this. When I woke up, it was dark outside. The car wasn't moving and there was someone I didn't know in the driver's seat. I think it might have been Mr. Unknown. It took a while for me to reorient myself, but when I realised what was happening, panic slammed back.

I am foolish. Very, very foolish. Instead of waiting quietly until I had regained full control over my muscles, the moment I remembered what had happened, I wrenched the door open and bolted. I must have gotten six yards before I stumbled, and my body refused to obey my frantic calls to get up and run.

Again, that brief moment of clarity is blurred by fear. Voices calling out, and hurried footsteps, I remember, and an icy hand holding something soft over my face—was it Erik?—and then, darkness.

There! It's over. I got it out of me. It _was_ as bad as I thought it would be, but … I feel better now that it's out.

The aftermath is worse, I think. Will writing more help? I don't know. Let me try. I was _terrified_ when those men came, but when I woke up….

Before this happened, I would not have been able to imagine what it would be like to wake up in a bed in a dimly lit, windowless room that I had never seen before.

It is worse than anything you can imagine, Bella. What would you do? Again, I don't remember much. I am grateful for that. The less I remember of it, the better.

Terror, of course. It's hard to forget that. It took a long while for me to remember what had happened, and when I did, my limp muscles refused to obey me immediately. I don't know how I managed to break free of the constricting sheets and stumble out of the bed. I did not want to go out, I know, thinking that it would be safer inside, but I did look for anything I could use to defend myself against Thin, Thinner, and Unknown. I don't think I had any illusions about escaping, but I certainly wasn't going to let them get any closer to me than possible.

A seminar about rape in college flashed through my mind. Oh, horrible! The speaker had said that if your life was threatened, it was better not to resist because you couldn't let one incident, however bad, be the price of your life. Like hell I would let that happen! I wanted my mother so badly then. Ma! I needed you so much! I _miss_ you so much!

God, were you there? I so desperately want to believe in you, but I'm too scared of being betrayed again. I believed blindly in him, you see, and see where that has led me.

The dizziness gradually lifted, but I still found no weapon I could use. There was nothing for it. I had to go outside. It wouldn't hurt, I told myself. I'd open the door a sliver and peek through it and if nobody was there, I'd go ahead and look for a way out.

It is such a frivolous memory to have, but I remember very clearly that I couldn't find my shoes when I went to the door and that scared me even more.

Barefoot, then, I edged the door open and peered out. The room outside was dimly lit and wherever the light was, it cast more shadows than illumination. I know for sure that I did not see anyone outside.

It just struck me: I have seen nobody other than him since that day. The idea is vertiginous.

I wasn't 'me' anymore when I crept outside. I knew I was tiptoeing, I knew I was looking around for any sign of any person, I knew I straightened up when I saw for certain that there was no one there, but it was as if I was watching it happen to somebody else. It wasn't me. Nothing was happening to me. The body I saw was doing all those things, not me. That's all I remember.

Dreamlike, I could hear the strains of a violin from behind the door opposite mine. It was playing a tune that I subconsciously recognised, but at the time could not register. It confused me, as in the real 'me', not the person in my body. Why music?

I did not want to go behind that door. Those men would be there.

There was another door to the right (the corridor one) and the person in my body settled on that as the path to freedom. Very carefully, and very quietly, she tiptoed towards it. She—we?— wasn't careful enough: halfway to the door, she/we stumbled against a cabinet and half-fell. The violin stopped, the door hiding it swung open, and for the first time, I saw Erik.

How do I describe that first sight? Petrifying. Terrifying. Horrifying. Every-word-for-scary-fying. I knew instantly that he wasn't Thin or Thinner. They were shorter. Perhaps this was Unknown. (It wasn't; Unknown was different.)

I was myself again for that half-second. True to the name I had half-given him, I couldn't see his face because of the black mask he wore. To my hyperactive brain, he seemed to blend into the shadows; everything he wore was black: jacket, shirt, trousers, shoes … mask. I could only see his hands and his eyes, and I was terrified.

All this I gathered in a few seconds, I think. It couldn't have been more. He moved, as if to step towards me and that split me back into two. I watched myself run to the door between us, wrench it open and continue blindly down the corridor. She/we yanked open the first door I noticed (though now I know that it wasn't the first), banged it behind her/us, and stopped short. It was the library.

Perhaps I should describe it to you, and you will understand why it scared me so much. It is a labyrinth, with just enough light to cast shadows, not drive them away. The vestibule itself is intimidating; there are several shelved paths that begin there, and most of them are shadowed. It is quite possible to get lost down one of those paths and never emerge. I often find it claustrophobic, so I stay away from the library for the most part. After I once got lost there, he put up markers that point the way towards the exit. At that time, there was nothing.

She/we ventured inside hesitantly. I had reached the first shelved path when, he caught up with me. She/we backed up against the shelves, panicking, and feeling around for a heavy book to strike him with.

His voice, heard for the first time in person. I will never forget the feeling. Shivers, then a thrill, then fear all over again.

"You must not be afraid," he said.

I heard myself pleading with him not to hurt me, to let me go, that I would do anything he asked, that I would not tell anyone what had happened, if only he would please, please let me go. I hated myself for abasing myself like that, and I kept thinking: this only happens in movies, this only happens in movies. Any time now, someone would come running in and save me or this would only be a nightmare and I would wake up or, or—.

He cut in. "I will not harm you, Christine."

I think I knew him then, but I refused to believe it. I asked him who he was, and when he said his name was 'Eric' (I thought it was that, then), I grew even more confused. Eric, as far as I knew was the liftman at home (home!) and this man looked nothing like him.

I asked him again.

"Don't you know me, Christine?"

And my mind slammed back into my body. It broke me completely. I knew his voice—how could I not? Betrayal, fear, despair, all combined forces and I sagged against the shelf and slid down, crying. My first real tears. How could I have been so _abysmally_ naïve?

The next thing I knew, he was kneeling, head bowed over my feet, and begging me not to cry, and declaring his love for me. My toes curled in, I hugged myself closer. Masked madman.

Once again, things are hazy. I know this: after I had stopped shaking violently, the urge to run smashed back. I know he had stopped speaking and had stood up somewhere before that, but I can't remember when he stood up, or what he said. I do recall scrambling to my feet and dashing towards the door.

He was faster, though, and blocking the exit, told me that I shouldn't try to escape.

I begged him to release me once again.

"But I will release you, Christine," he said, towering over my cowering figure. He said more about trust and about teaching, I think, but it isn't clear.

I had so many questions to ask: who was he? why had he brought me here? why he had invaded my dreams? my life? when would he let me go? At the time, I was unable to ask any of those. Panic Mode had switched on, and I had trouble breathing. Trouble? No, that isn't quite accurate. I couldn't breathe at all. Through the wavering darkness that assaulted me, I heard the voice I had once claimed as my own singing. At least I think I did. Perhaps I'm romanticising it.

You must know, Bella, that most of these 'memoirs' aren't accurate. I've filled in quite a few details that I imagine to have happened. Most of what I remember is too fractal to be coherent.

That was my first true encounter with Erik, anyway. The next one was almost as harrowing and even more incomprehensible.

I woke up in the dark room with a strong sense of déjà-vu. I don't know how long it had been since I first woke up, but I know that I was just as scared. It took me longer this time to consider leaving the room. I remember exploring it cautiously first; every new item discovered threw me into a new panic. I found my shoes somewhere, but I can't remember where anymore. The bathroom, the writing desk, the _clothes_. Everything was there, down to the smallest detail (except for sanitary napkins, if you remember).

Eventually, I realised that I was very hungry and that my throat was parched. There was no sound from outside, so I decided to risk it for food. Decision and Action aren't very close. It took me very long to work up the nerve to venture outside once again.

I had accidentally broken an ornamental glass plate while I was looking around. When I finally managed to work up the courage to go outside, I took one of the shards as a sort of self-defence, hiding it behind me.

He must have seen it, but he did not try to take it from me then. He gave me food and water and spoke to me gently. I don't remember any of what he said. When he stood up and asked me to follow him to the living room, I decided to take my chance.

He turned out of the room and as he did, I ran and tried to strike him with the glass piece.

He knew. He must have known. How else did he turn around so bewilderingly fast and seize my wrist before it could move any closer to him?

Fragments, once more. Fear, and him tying a bandage around my hand, which had gotten cut at some point of time, and he didn't shout, not once. The image of his narrowed eyes—in disappointment?—is particularly vivid.

The next thing I remember clearly is in the living room. He told me that he loved me and wanted to teach me better and that he had brought me here because there was only so much that he could do as merely a voice. He kept on telling me that he would let me go and all I needed to do was to trust and obey him. Lies, all of them! Soon enough, he let me go back to my room, but retrieved the remaining glass pieces first.

The days after this are blurred. These two episodes stand out clearly amidst a haze on both sides of my mental timeline. Flashes of memories pop up, but I cannot place them accurately. I do not remember in what order they happened. I don't even know if they _did_ happen.

There was one particularly claustrophobic day when he went away for a while, leaving only a note saying that I was free to explore the house if I wished to. I think I have the note stowed away somewhere in the corner of a drawer.

That day, I got so lost in the library that I could not find my way out. Feeling increasingly trapped and panicked, I huddled in a corner for almost half the day until he returned and found me. Then, he put up signs on the shelves that pointed the way back to the exit, and also told me that he would move the books that I might prefer to the outer shelves, so I wouldn't get lost again.

I keep having this dream where everything that I think I remember of my life before this is an illusion and that I have been here all my life. And then there are dreams of wars and of ceilings crumbling and trapping me forever. When I was younger and had bad dreams, I'd always be able to go to Mama and she'd hug me and perhaps sing a song and I'd be able to go back to sleep, reassured. Here, there is nothing, but cloying terror that refuses to let me sleep, no matter how much I try to rationalise it and make it go away.

I am scared.

I must go now. It's very late and I want to sleep.

* * *

**Author's Note**: I won't make excuses for this delay. I don't like making excuses. There were circumstances I could not avoid and priorities are priorities. However, you can expect the chapters to move faster now, so there's some good news. :)


	12. The Fall

**Author's Note**: My apologies for putting this note on the top. I have a reason: I haven't been able to log in to for quite a while now. Now that I _have_ managed to log in, I've found that I cannot upload new documents. Long story short, I edited an old chapter document and put this new one here. However, due to several technical issues, none of which I can comprehend, there is no formatting available for editing the document adequately, so I've had to resort to HTML tagging. It is a tedious process, and susceptible to error. I'm hoping and hoping this will work correctly. If it doesn't, and all the text is garbled, it is better to have a note warning you of this in advance, instead of making you scroll down to the end, right?

Enjoy, hopefully!

---------------------------------------------------------------

**The Fall**

He says I must hurry, so I will write this down quickly while he waits: he is going to let me go! Seven days, he promised! Oh, Isabella, I'm so happy I could scream! You don't know I did this, but I hugged you wildly just now.

—And now, I must hurry. He told me to come out soon.

—Freedom!

.

He gave me a ring. He said that so long as I wear it, he will be my friend. Ominous words, but it is such a small price to pay for freedom!

Euphoria gone. Tears. The most awful thought—I must know soon. I do not think I could bear _this_ being yet another of his deceptions. His mask is the answer; it _must_ be the answer. Should I?

You cannot help.

He calls again.

.

The music doesn't stop! Tell him to stop, someone! Anyone! Please, I beg you, Erik. Stop this music….

Oh, Bella, what have I _done_? The _music_!

.

The clock on my dresser says that the time is now 3:23 a.m. I haven't slept at all this night and I finally decided to turn to you. Perhaps you can help me get some rest.

Awful, awful, awful. What a _despicable_ day this has been! And it's entirely my fault! What do I _do_, Bella? Why was I so stupid? Oh, poor Erik! I was afraid for myself, but after a while, I grew afraid for him, too. He scared me so much! My wrists are bruised and my head is sore. I can still feel his skeletal fingers in my hair, tearing my scalp. And there is a cut on my head too. I think I got it when he threw me down. Did I fall against the cabinet? I do not remember how things happened. His face, it—! And his voice thundering at me the worst I'd ever heard and all the time his face his ghastly face and—. I thought I had seen him angry before. Perhaps I have. But this was uncontrolled fury. Oh, and the sorrow! Poor Erik!

I cannot sleep. I wish, I wish…. I wish too much. Why—? The very thought of it burns, incinerates like his—.

I took off his mask. I had to know! Please tell me you understand. If I didn't look, I would have gone mad. I could not bear the idea of him lying to me yet again. I snatched it away and his face—! Oh, it's hideous! But—. Why, why, _why_?

I tell myself that I must not think of it, but I can't avoid it. Everywhere I look—. Everywhere! It surrounds me!

Why?!

Oh, this is useless! I cannot think coherently! Later, perhaps….

I am such a foolish—I can't think of any word strong enough to use for myself.

My wrists are so sore….

What have I _done_, Bella?

.

4:15 a.m. No sleep yet. I can't stop thinking, pacing, _remembering_. What should I do? You're supposed to help me reorder my thoughts, but you can't. It's too much. Too much to say. What should I do?

.

Morning. The last time I looked at the clock, it was 6:50 a.m. That was a long time ago. I don't know if I should go out. Should I?

I haven't heard anything from outside. Where is he?

.

My head is aching. I want to speak to him. Where is he?

.

I can't find him. Has he left? Where is he?

.

I can hear the music again! He is back. I was beginning to panic. I will speak to him.

.

Poor Erik…. Poor, unhappy Erik. I spoke to him. I meant everything I said.

.

.

I feel as if I am a different person writing here. It's been three days since everything happened…. Three days. More like three centuries.

Where do I begin?

I cannot write about it.

Please understand, Bella. It is too close, too raw. Besides, my wrists are still sore. Call that justification, if you must. It is what it is. I just can't write about it.

_Later._

He says that he will release me, despite what I did. I spoke to him. I forgave—no, I for_give_—him for his reaction. Does _he_ forgive me? I would not have cared earlier, but now….

Everything makes sense now.

This is not a nightmare.

Unless his face is one.

But that cannot be. No. It isn't. I would not imagine something like that.

Why did I want to know so much?

It is likely that I am the most accursed fool under the sun.

'Under the earth' would be more precise, but I don't know many people who live underground.

Is it good that I am striving to find humour somewhere?

I've been reading you and I've noticed that I wallow in tears and self-pity. Enough of that. From this day forth, I will confront everything with dignity. I have self-respect, or at least I did, once. I might still hate him for what he has done—these events change nothing; I need to be free—but I will not let him see my weaknesses. _Christine_ had better leave me for good.

I know that's easy to say, but as I live, I do not want to abase myself further.

I am at a loss for words, Bella. I keep on thinking of it. Poor Erik. Poor, unhappy Erik.

The ring means a lot more now. I don't want to wear it, but I don't know what he will do if I take it off. It chafes at my finger. I've never liked rings.

I'll begin to be dignified now. No more will I speak about my emotions. _David Copperfield_ (yet another Dickens, I know) has been occupying my time these past days. I couldn't bear to write in you, so I read instead. The first part made me cry. It is—.

I can't do this anymore. I've been trying and trying to write coherently, but the words don't flow like they used to. I'll continue later, perhaps.

Goodbye, Isabella.

Yours ever,

Christine


End file.
